Category: Trunk Stories

Trunk Stories

Afterlife

prompt: Center your story around someone who’s being haunted — by what or whom is up to you.

available at Reedsy

It was there again, at the edge of my senses, always just out of sight. My brother, mister smarty-pants, said that it was nothing more than stress and apophenia with a dash of pareidolia thrown in for good measure.

I had to look it up after he’d left — I couldn’t let him think his big sister wasn’t good with words. Why couldn’t he just say I was seeing patterns that didn’t exist and assigning meaning to them? That’s what an English degree and a job as an assistant librarian gets you, I guess.

It’s not that I’m stupid, I just went a different direction. While my little brother was busy with college, I was throwing off gender norms, getting my hands dirty and working my way up from the bottom to where I am now. By the time I was certified as a Master Mechanic, I’d moved up to the number two position in the garage. Rick, the owner, has said, more than once, that when he retires, I should take over and buy him out.

He gave me a chance to run the whole show. For the first time in more years than I’d known him, he was taking a real vacation. Rick and his wife were taking a month-long vacation in Cabo San Lucas. For the first few days, he’d called every day, until his wife and I ganged up on him to focus on his vacation. I hadn’t heard from him in over a week, but I still emailed the daily statements to him every evening.

Whatever it was, it had started when Rick stopped calling, but I wasn’t all that stressed. Running the garage felt natural. There was nothing I was doing that I hadn’t done a thousand times before.

I was there late, replacing the brakes on the parts truck, and if I didn’t know better, I’d think someone else was there, too. It was like whoever or whatever it was flitted about just outside my field of view like a shy moth. Maybe that’s what it was — a moth or something around one of the lights casting flickering shadows.

I took a break from my work and walked around the entire garage, inspecting every light fixture. No moths in or around any of them. I even continued my search in the office, the warehouse, and the bathrooms. Aside from the dead bugs in the warehouse lights, nothing.

I went back to work on the truck, focused on my task rather than the feeling of eyes on the back of my neck. After I had the truck buttoned up and ready to go I carried the old pads to the recycle cart. To get there I had to pass Rick’s tool chest. As I did, it felt hard to breathe. It felt as though something terrible had happened to him.

The clank of the pads in the recycle cart pulled my attention back to the garage. Rick was fine, I was just stressed. I was certain my little brother had it right. That didn’t stop me from sending him a “Hope your vacation is going great” text message, though.

I waited too long for a reply, then decided I should head home. Like I often did on the drive home, I came up with a set of tasks for the next day. For sure, I’d have Neil and Jose clean the light fixtures in the warehouse and run a broom through it. Hadn’t been done in months, I was sure.

I parked in front of my apartment, and had a moment, just as I shut off the engine, where it felt like there was someone in the passenger seat. There wasn’t, of course, but it still set my heart to pounding. I locked the car, and my phone chimed with the text message sound.

Excited to hear from Rick, I checked. There were no new texts, and no notifications. Maybe I just imagined it. That had to be it.

As I slept, I relived a conversation Rick and I had a few months prior. We’d somehow gotten on the topic of what, if anything, comes after death.

“I don’t think anything happens,” I said. “Just like there was no you before your birth, there’s no you after your death.”

“But what would it be like if there was something after death?” he asked. “Some way to balance out the cosmic scales of the rich and successful bad people and the poor and struggling good people, for instance.”

“Like karma?”

“Yeah,” he said, “or maybe that’s what Purgatory is for.”

“If that’s your take, what about ghosts? Are they the medium people?”

“I don’t know. Maybe they’re just trying to avoid Purgatory, or they’re waiting for someone or something.” He laughed. “Tell you what, if there’s something after death, I’ll let you know.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked. “You’re talking like you’re dying. What is it? Cancer?”

“No, no,” he said, “nothing like that. I’m old, and you’re still young. Odds are, I’ll die first. And if I do, then I’ll let you know if there’s an afterlife.”

“So, you’ll haunt me?”

Rick rubbed his beard. “Depends. Would you rather be haunted or hunted?” He burst into a cackling laugh. “What a difference an ‘a’ makes!”

I groaned. “You and your dad jokes. At least if you’re haunting me, I’ll know it’s you.”

I woke and realized that I still hadn’t heard from Rick in over a week. I checked my phone again and saw nothing new. I was seriously beginning to worry.

I opened the garage early and checked the phone for messages. There was one from the Sheriff’s department. Intrigued, I listened to the message.

“This is Sheriff’s Deputy Maria Ruiz calling for Ana Navona. Please call me back at your earliest convenience at ….”

I wrote down the number, then called from my cell phone. The call was answered on the first ring.

“Sheriff’s Department, how can I direct your call?” the young-sounding man on the phone asked.

“Deputy Maria Ruiz, please,” I said.

There were a couple clicks on the line. “Ruiz.”

“Yeah, this is Ana Navona. You asked me to call you?”

“Ana, I’m so sorry. We just got word from the Red Cross that Richard and Judith Collins were in a boating accident eight days ago. Mexican authorities have given up the search for them and have declared them dead.”

I stared at the window of the shop, the shock blurring the “Ricks Automotive” sign long before the tears blurred everything. “He’s…he’s dead?”

“I’m so sorry, ma’am.”

“Yeah…I gotta go.”

By the time everyone came in, I’d put up a temporarily closed sign and was sobbing in the middle of bay one in the garage.

We had a quiet day, drinking, talking about Rick and Jude, and doing our best not to bawl. My phone rang several times throughout the day, with no number showing up, and nothing but static on the line.

It was sometime after noon that Neil called cabs for everyone to get home, and my phone rang again.

“Listen, whoever this is, today is not a good day for pranks. Leave me the fuck alone!” I yelled.

I heard the static again and waited for any response when I heard his voice, sounding distant. It sounded like Rick, but I knew it couldn’t be, until the voice got louder. “Ana Navona, we’ve been trying to reach you about your karma’s extended warranty.”

Trunk Stories

Seeing Her

prompt: Write a story where a creature turns up in an unexpected way.

available at Reedsy

Death comes calling for every living thing at some point, even when she sends one of her agents around to collect. Most of those agents are simply doing what it takes to survive. Life, for the most part, feeds on death. Some, however, are unwitting and even unwilling, but they still collect.

Travis Leoni became one of those unwitting agents of death when he had lain on the lawn of the cemetery after placing flowers on his parents’ grave. A passerby thought he might need help and called for police to check on the “homeless man sleeping in the graveyard.”

The presence of the officer there meant she wasn’t in a position to prevent an accident. A driver in a hurry that would’ve slowed down at the sight of a police cruiser, blew through an intersection and hit a cyclist.

Travis, the officer that checked on him, and the concerned citizen that called it in had no idea of their roles in that death, but Death knew. She knew that the cyclist didn’t have to die that day. In fact, the idea that every living thing has a pre-ordained time to die is something people tell themselves to feel better about it. Living things, including people, die when they die and not on a schedule.

Travis left his parents’ grave behind and walked to the bar where he and his father used to share a pitcher of beer every Saturday. He sat at a table in the back, not wanting to be in the midst of the crowds on the anniversary of his parents’ passing.

The bar filled, and others sat at the table for a bit before leaving again. One man, however, dressed in a silk suit, sat down across from Travis with a glass of wine and stared at him until he responded.

“What do you want?” he asked the man.

“You look like you’ve seen Death,” the man said.

“So have a lot of people.” Travis emptied his drink and gave the waitress a nod for a refill. “I’m not looking for sympathy and I don’t need your advice or religion or whatever you’re offering.”

“You misunderstand me,” the man said. “I don’t mean you’ve seen the end of a life or lives, I mean you’ve seen her.” He leaned across the table. “Death with a capital ‘D’.”

The waitress set his fresh drink down and Travis handed her a bill and waved off the change. “What is that supposed to mean?”

The man smiled, but his eyes reflected nothing. “I mean that there are so few living things that have seen the Lady Death before she comes for them, it’s easy to pick out those who have.”

Travis harrumphed. “If there’s anything you see here, it’s survivor’s guilt.”

“That’s what you think,” the man said, loosening his tie. “But there are memories you haven’t faced yet.”

“So you say.”

The man sipped at his wine. “What is your employment?”

“I’m an EMT.” Travis said.

“Exactly. Of course, you didn’t even consider it before the accident.”

“Well,” Travis said, “you seem to know everything about me.”

“Not everything,” the man said, “but enough. You spend one weekend a month as a volunteer, right?”

“Yeah, I’m a vigil volunteer.”

“What is that, exactly?”

“I sit with dying patients in hospice care.” Travis stared into his drink. “I hold their hand, talk to them, calm them. I just don’t want them to die alone.”

“You are doing what you saw the lady herself do.” The man stared at Travis unblinking. “You’re drawn to her, and long to meet her.”

“I long to meet death?” Travis asked. “I don’t have a death wish.”

“That’s not what I said. I said you want to see Death, capital ‘D’, again.” The man touched Travis’s forehead. “Remember.”

The oncoming truck swerved into their lane. Travis’ father jerked the wheel to the right, sending the car into the end of the guard rail. The car flipped over the railing, sailing off the bridge, landing upside down in the creek far below.

Travis woke suspended by the seatbelt in the back seat. The headrests of the front seats disappeared into the crushed roof of the car, where water washed in clear and flowed out red. He knew his parents were dead.

Then he saw her. Though only visible as a faint shadow, he knew she was there to help. He couldn’t make out what she was saying, but he could feel waves of peace and comfort radiate from her to cover his parents. He saw their faces for a brief moment, smiling as they left with her.

When his awareness returned to the bar, he looked at the man through his tears. That feeling he had the night his parents died — that was the same feeling he tried to give those passing at the hospice care  — or in his ambulance. He wanted to feel her presence again.

Travis dried his eyes. “How did you know what even I didn’t?” he asked.

“Because I can always see her,” he said. “And I know that she’s never far from you.”

“Well, yeah. I mean, I help people who are dying.”

“That, and she’s sitting right beside you.” Again, the man smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

Travis looked to the side and saw only the empty bench beside him. He looked back at the man’s eyes and realized that they were not reflecting the lights around them. They looked dull, dead.

“What are you?” he asked. “No, ignore that. If she’s sitting there, why can’t I see her, but you can?”

“She doesn’t show herself to the living.”

Travis rolled his eyes on reflex. “She doesn’t show herself to the living, yet you are here, talking and breathing and drinking wine. You seem pretty alive to me.”

For the first time, the man’s smile reached his eyes. “Her definition of living is slightly different than yours. Any organism that can die without external forces is alive. As I can be killed but can’t die otherwise, she doesn’t consider me alive.”

“Then how did I see her last time?” Travis asked.

“That I don’t know,” the man said, “but I offer a way to meet her properly and then see her always.”

Travis closed his eyes. What was he feeling before seeing her during the accident? The shock of knowing his parents had just died hit him like a hammer. Having just relived the memory, he allowed himself to feel that shock and the blanking of his thoughts.

Travis opened his eyes and looked to his right. She was there. If asked to describe her, he would be hard-pressed to come up with any physical traits. It was her gentle, calm presence that filled him.

She gave him a sad smile and brushed his cheek with her hand. He felt her love for him, for all living things.

Travis turned to look at the man across from him and truly saw him for the first time. He saw the hundreds of years of post-death existence behind the facade of a man. He saw through the youthful appearance, paid for by drinking the blood of others. The vampire that sat opposite him was a husk of a creature, preserved but dead.

“You’re thinking about it,” the vampire said. “I can give you what you want. You should see how she’s looking at you now, knowing that she’ll be meeting you properly in a moment.”

“That’s where you’re wrong.” Travis stared at the vampire with his new sight. “I already have what I want, and you want to take it away. As long as I live, she’s here for me and those I help. You’re nothing more than a husk, shambling through your perverse imitation of life.”

“What? How are you seeing like the undead?”

“Undead? No, you’re dead-dead, you just don’t want to admit it. Good night.”

Travis stood and looked back at Death. With the knowledge of how to open his sight to her, she was easy to see. “I’m leaving. I’ll see you whenever you’re near.”

Trunk Stories

An Unforgivable Sin

prompt: Write a story that hides something from the reader until the end.

available at Reedsy

I didn’t plan for this to happen. It’s not something I would believe myself capable of but — I’ve done the unforgivable. The evidence is there on my bed, her shape covered by the blankets. There’s a woman in the mirror I don’t recognize. It’s my face, hair, body, even eyes…but they’re different somehow.

It started when I was released from jail where I did 364 days for possession because my mother left her drugs in my car. I probably should’ve hired a better lawyer, but that’s another story.

When I walked out of jail, I was starving. The food — if you can call it that — in jail is dismal at best, and there was nothing to feed my soul. I spent the first two weeks out in the downtown area around my apartment, visiting the steakhouse, the Italian place half a block away, the Thai place across the street from there, and the taco truck that only showed up Friday and Saturday evenings on the main drag.

Of course, despite all those places being in the same general area of downtown, the real draw for all of them are the crowds. I love crowds of people, and the energetic buzz that runs through the crowd of partygoers stopping for a quick bite before heading back into one the half-dozen nightclubs and bars in the area.

After those first two weeks and gaining back the few pounds I’d lost in jail, I felt more normal. It was time to get back into the groove of my life. I began to look for a job to keep me busy. I didn’t need the income, just something to occupy my time.

I was under the impression that a misdemeanor was not the dealbreaker a felony record was, but it mattered more than I expected. I eventually found a position as a temp and was sent out to a real estate office to help with digitizing old records.

After most of a week there, they invited me out for happy hour with the office. They took me to a quiet little out-of-the-way bar that I never would’ve chosen on my own. That’s where I met her. A tiny woman with honey-brown skin, deep brown hair with a propensity to frizz, large, dark eyes, and the sweetest shy smile.

Once the rest of the office had left the bar, I sat next to her and bought a round. She was lonely, I was alone, we went back to my place. That’s all it was meant to be. One night, a few hours of companionship.

As she was leaving, she said, “I don’t usually do this, but life is too short to miss a good moment.”

“Isn’t it bad that life is short?” I asked.

“No,” Myra answered with a wink. “That’s what makes every moment precious.”

Over the next week, I couldn’t get her and what she said out of my mind. I didn’t even know her name, and she didn’t know mine. There hadn’t been a need for that, then. I had finished up at the real estate office and spent the week in the mail room of a corporate office downtown.

When Friday rolled around, I found myself heading back to the quiet little bar. Not a single lie I told myself about why I went there stuck. The idea that she might be there pulled me like a moth to flame, and no amount of rationalization would change that.

She was in the same spot at the bar, wearing a shimmery, blue dress. I suddenly felt underdressed, but I wasn’t going to let that stop me.

This time when I sat next to her and she gave me that sweet smile, I said, “Hi. My name’s Andariel…Andi for short.”

“Hi, Andi,” she said, then giggled. “I’m Myra. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

I gave her a kiss, much to the consternation of the bartender and several of the patrons. Feeling the mood around me, I did my best to gather myself.

“My place?” she asked.

We couldn’t get out of there fast enough. Her place was close. A studio apartment just a couple blocks away. Cozy, cute, and homey, her place fit her perfectly.

We spent no more than a few minutes apart over the weekend, starting at her place and ending at mine. We talked about everything and nothing. Monday morning, I woke up two hours early so I could accompany her back to her place spend every spare second with her before she had to go to work.

From the moment she stepped on the bus that would take her to the financial district, my heart felt empty. A longing I’d never known made it hard to think straight. If ever there was a moment I could’ve avoided committing my greatest sin, that was it.

The thought crossed my mind then, Run away while I still can. Go to another city, another state, even another country. Leave her behind before I do something unforgivable.

I called out sick from work and made it as far as packing my bags, before the ache in my heart stopped me. With the drawers and closet empty, I cleaned the apartment then unpacked. I finished just in time to rush to meet Myra at the bus stop.

Her warm smile when she stepped off the bus and saw me sealed our fate. It was too late. There would never be another chance to avoid my sin. I had already committed it in my heart.

The next two months went by in a whirlwind. I got a permanent position at the temp agency, handing out work assignments. Myra moved in with me, saving us both money and reducing her commute to a simple walk.

Since that first time, I haven’t gone out anywhere without Myra. Where I used to get my fill of interactions from the crowds both in and around the clubs and bars, that need was being met by Myra, even when we were doing nothing more than reading in the same room.

It was one of those evenings, a Thursday, that my mother visited. She knocked and let herself in without waiting for a response and stood in the middle of the living room in a fighting stance.

“Andariel!” she shouted at me, “Just what do you think you’re doing?”

“Hello, mother. Please, come in.” I turned to Myra. “Myra, this is my mother, Lilith. Mom, this is Myra.”

“Does that plaything know what you are?” Lilith asked.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Myra asked, standing up. “I’ll have you know that your daughter is—”

“Sit down, child.” Lilith stared her down, and Myra did something I’d never seen before. She withstood that glare.

“Either speak kindly or leave our home,” Myra said. “Your daughter already did time for your drugs. You apparently don’t care about her at all.”

Lilith looked at me. “When did you last take a lover other than Myra? There’s a couple of sweet things waiting for you at the hotel.”

“No.” I shook my head. “Not happening.”

“I can see it’s too late,” Lilith said. Her voice and stance softened. “Myra, since Andariel hasn’t told you yet, she is, like me, a succubus.”

“If she was a slut before, then good for her!” Myra got right into my mother’s face. “She hasn’t slept around since we’ve been together, even without either of us saying anything about it.”

Lilith smiled. “I didn’t say we’re sluts, I said succubus. We need sexual energy as much as we need food.”

“Mother,” I said, “please stop.”

“No, the mortal needs to understand. Sit down!” Lilith used her powers of compulsion to make Myra sit. “If my daughter doesn’t feed her soul, she’ll die.”

“Is that true?” Myra asked. “You’ll die if you don’t take other lovers?”

“Not like that,” I said. “I’ll become mortal. I’ll lose my powers over time. I’ll age, and we can grow old together.”

Tears filled Myra’s eyes. “I don’t want you to die just for me. Do what you need to survive.”

“You don’t understand,” I said, “I won’t.”

“This is no way for one of my daughters to behave,” Lilith said. “I never thought it would be you, but after a thousand years, here it is.”

Myra broke through Lilith’s compulsion enough to shake free and stand up. “What is here?”

“You are a strong one. Yes, I think you did it,” Lilith said.

“Did what?” Myra asked.

I heaved a sigh. “She means you made me commit an unforgivable sin.”

“Unforgivable sin?” Myra asked.

“My daughter has fallen in love. She will die but I and my other daughters will carry on.” Lilith sighed. “I’ll miss her, though.”

“Andi, go to the hotel. Tend to your needs. We’ll work through it.” Myra was frantic. “Please. I don’t want to lose you.”

“You’re not going to lose me,” I said. “For the first time in over a thousand years, I know love. One lifetime with you is worth more than all of that and all the other thousands I could have. You said it, because life is short, it’s precious.”

Lilith turned to go. “Goodbye, Andariel. You were one of my favorite daughters. We will hold your wake in fifty years, but you will never see me again.”

The years since then have gone by in a blur. I looked at Myra’s sleeping profile under the blankets, then turned back to the mirror to straighten my greying hair. She was still worth it.

Trunk Stories

Predator

prompt: Write a story from the point of view of a ghost, vampire, or werewolf.

available at Reedsy

Liminal, that’s the word I’d use to describe myself. I live in the spaces between; between human and beast, between day and night, between civilization and…shit, I’m rambling in my own head. What am I, an emo teen now?

Looking at me, you’d never guess what I am. In fact, looking at me and the man studying me with a predatory eye, you’d assume he’s the more dangerous one. Which seems more of a threat, a dark-haired, fair-skinned, amber-eyed woman who stands five-foot-nothing and weighs a hundred pounds soaking wet, or a six-foot-and-change, two-hundred-sixty pound, muscle-bound, heavily tattooed, blond, blue-eyed, hairy dude wearing leather and chains?

If someone showed a thousand people our pictures side by side and asked them to pick the werewolf, I’d bet good money he’d be chosen almost every time. They would be wrong, of course. Ever heard of a wolf that large? No.

At least he’s lost interest in the young lady he was targeting earlier. Once I had his attention, I signaled the bartender to help her to slip out the back door and get away. He’s at least as dangerous as he looks, but I’m far more dangerous. Of all the long-running packs, mine is one of the six most respected and powerful in terms of werewolf politics.

Estimates range from a few hundred to as many as thirty-thousand people put to death as werewolves in the witch trials of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. Of those, none were actual werewolves. At least, that’s the history as I’ve been taught.

If anyone should know, it would be my mother who taught me these things. Our family, the Liutprand pack, dates back to the Kingdom of the Lombards in 728. From there, the history lessons are dry and boring but bring us eventually to passage to the New World on The Ambrose in 1630. There were werewolves in Massachusetts before it was Massachusetts.

The pack started a dairy farm and stayed there, at least up to just before the California gold rush. The Liutprand pack left Massachusetts and headed West for more open hunting land. It was there in Oregon that we settled once again. The pack is still there, but I’m here in Chicago, vetting a man my sister wants to bring into the family. It seems their university fling was more serious than I first thought. That means that I’m faced with doing something a wolf should never do, facing a challenge solo. Without the pack, a wolf is vulnerable.

It’s not like the movies, even though I love them. In movies, we’re like superheroes. We don’t heal by transforming, we don’t live hundreds of years, transforming only happens on purpose, and we are born, not made. We don’t have superhuman strength or speed, but we do train to defend ourselves and the pack from an early age. I can already hear the question, so yes, I suppose a silver bullet would kill me, but so would a regular one.

I’ve made sure to keep the big predator’s attention on me. I sent my sister’s suitor home an hour ago. He’s a good guy, solid. I already called my sister and told her to bring him to the pack in Oregon. Remember I said that werewolves are born and not made? If both parents are a werewolf, the child will be as well. If one is not but comes from a family with a werewolf in the wood pile, as it were, there is chance, though small, that the child will be a werewolf.

The days of sending sixteen-year-old sons to marry into another pack are mostly gone. Nowadays, it’s generally after they finish their undergraduate degree, and they aren’t expected to marry one of the daughters at the same time they meet them. Often, those young men end up  like my brother, being a sperm donor for a couple of the girls and settle into a life as part of the pack without marrying in.

It’s amazing how far a mind can wander when thinking about the danger ahead is too uncomfortable. Unfortunately, that’s what I need to be thinking about now. He’s huge, and if he gets a hand on me, I’ll be in a world of hurt. The narrow alley halfway down the block would make a good place for an ambush. He won’t have much room to maneuver, and there are plenty of places I can hide and transform before he makes it to me.

I’ve been acting more and more drunk, and as a small woman alone, the predator has made up his mind that I am his prey tonight. With my plan firmly in mind, I got up from the bar, weaving a bit as I head toward the door. I heard his boots behind me as I neared the exit. Subtle he was not.

I half-stumbled out the door, then stood up and walked briskly as soon as I was out of sight. When I heard his boots on the sidewalk behind me, I kept up my pace, though my path swerved from one side of the sidewalk to the other. I wasn’t sure how drunk I looked, but he kept up following.

Here I was in the liminal spaces again; between buildings, between the relative safety of the semi-lit streets and the wall that turned the space into a dead-end, between life and death. I reached the blind alley and headed in, hoping I looked like a drunk ducking into the alley for a piss. I sprinted to the far end of the alley and dropped behind a dumpster where I transformed and stepped out of my heels.

That’s another thing that’s unlike the movies. It doesn’t take minutes to transform, and it isn’t painful. At least a few get it right with the transformation happening in an instant. We don’t have to be nude to transform, and we certainly don’t get bigger and rip our clothes. Ever seen a wolf wearing a little black dress? Well, this guy did.

When I tell you that I let a predator more than twice my size follow me down a blind alley, you would assume that I would be the one to suffer from my poor choices. Spoiler — you would be wrong. I don’t know if he survived, and frankly, I don’t care. Judging by the amount of his blood soaked into my clothes, however, I doubt it.

Trunk Stories

Cell Mates

prompt: Two strangers discover they have a hidden connection that alters their understanding of each other and themselves.

available at Reedsy

The walls, floor, and ceiling were painted in the precise shade of pale green-grey that led thinking beings to boredom and introspection. Those with a reduced capacity for introspection, however, would find the color maddening after some time. Those unfortunate souls ended up in solitary.

Troy was not a large man. He stood 164 centimeters and weighed in at just fifty-four kilograms. He had no fat under his warm brown skin, though, to hide his thin muscles, making him look almost starved. As such, his friends offered “advice” for his time behind bars. That advice was based on fiction and stereotypes; “join a faction like the Sons of Adam, you can remove the tattoos when you get out,” “try to beat up the biggest guy there the first day,” “just keep your head down and don’t look anyone in the eye.”

None of the advice was useful. There was no way to join — or even find — a faction in the prison, and a fight would just add time to his sentence. With meals taken in the cell, delivered by guards, and a rotating schedule for yard time in one of the sixty exercise yards, Troy guessed that two prisoners might encounter each other twice a year at most, unless they were cell mates.

It was while he was contemplating the isolation of the prison that the electronic lock on the door buzzed. Troy looked up from where he lay on the bottom bunk. A guard looked into the cell, then turned to the hulking shadow behind him. “In here.”

He stepped out of the way, and a second guard followed an orc carrying a rolled-up mattress, blanket, pillow, spare uniform, and laundry bag. The dun-skinned orc with ivory tusks and too many scars to count was easily twice Troy’s weight, and head and shoulders taller.

“Top bunk, inmate,” the first guard said.

“Are you sure, boss?” the orc asked. “I’m pretty heavy.”

The guard raised his stun baton. “I meant what I said. Top bunk.”

Troy rolled out of his bunk and retreated to the far side of the cell. He controlled his face, hiding the fear that gripped him.

The orc nodded at the guard and with a leap landed on his back on the top bunk, which didn’t let out even a squeak at the abuse. “Top bunk it is, boss.”

Troy didn’t want to turn his back on the orc, but he felt a sudden, urgent need to urinate. He decided to do it while the guards were there in the cell, to ensure his back was protected.

“Really, inmate?” one of the guards asked. “You couldn’t wait for us to leave?”

Troy finished up and flushed the commode. “No, sir, I couldn’t.”

The other guard said, “When you gotta’ go, you gotta’ go. Stevens, Irontooth here is your new cellie. Show him the ropes, and make sure he follows the rules. He fucks up, it’s on you.” With that, the guards left, and the door locked behind them.

Troy returned to his bunk and lay down, his eyes watching every move of the huge orc. The time for introspection had passed, Troy was gripped with the alert focus that comes from adrenaline.

They ate their dinner in silence. The guard that retrieved their empty trays told Troy to show the orc how to properly make up his bunk.

Troy put on his most confident face and talked the orc through the steps to make his bunk. He was an attentive student and picked it up right away.

Troy fell asleep with the feeling that the orc could attack at any time, but it would result in a trip to the hospital and at least he’d see something different. He woke in the morning to the subtle, silent movements of the orc shifting around on the solid bunk above him. He sat up and coughed. At some point, he would have to turn his back on his cell mate, and what happened then would be anyone’s guess.

He stood and looked at the orc sitting cross-legged on his bunk, dark circles under his golden eyes. Troy sighed. “Did you get any sleep last night?”

The orc shook his head.

“Why?”

“I was waiting for you to attack.”

Troy laughed so hard he had difficulty calming down to breathe. When he saw that only made the orc more nervous, he collected himself. “Troy Stevens,” he said. “What’s your name other than inmate Irontooth?”

“Irgontook. Den Irgontook,” the orc said, “not Irontooth.”

“Yeah, the guards aren’t all the sharpest tools in the shed. What made you think I would attack someone your size?” Troy leaned against the wall.

“I thought you were in the Sons of Adam, and I thought you would shank me in the middle of the night,” Den said.

“What gave you that idea?”

Den cleared his throat. “When you — when you took a piss in front of me and the guards, like you were marking your territory. It’s like you had an advantage of some sort.”

Troy laughed again. “The only reason I did that was because I didn’t want to turn my back on you while we were alone. I was scared that you would decide I was in the way and would break me in half.”

“But you went right to sleep,” Den said, “not the actions of someone scared. I thought that meant you felt well-protected.”

“It’s more that I figured if you were going to jump me, I’d either die and not know about it, or I’d end up in the hospital and get to look at a different room. Anyway, Den, I’m not with those assholes. Assuming that I am because I’m human would be like me assuming you’re a gangbanger because you’re an orc. You aren’t, are you? You don’t look like the gang type.”

Den shook his head. “I’m a firefighter,” he said. “That’s the closest to a gang I ever got.”

“What landed you here?”

“Possession with intent to sell. But it’s not like it’s true.” Den stretched out on the bunk. “I carried an elf out of a fire, laid her on a stretcher, and a bag of pills fell out of her pocket. I didn’t know what was in it, so I picked it up and put it on the stretcher with her. One of the cops on scene assumed it was mine, and the public defender was useless. What about you?”

“Old news.” Troy sat down next to the wall. “You heard of the Salem Seven?”

Den propped himself up on one elbow. “The group that went to prison over the voting thing? I thought they were all orcs.”

“They were. And their sentences were vacated by Parliament after two years, when the High Court finally decided that the Voting Restrictions Act they were protesting was, in fact, unconstitutional.”

“So, what does that have to do with you?” Den asked.

Troy chuckled. “In a stunning display of racism, the four elves, three humans, and two dwarves on the High Court decided that seven orcs couldn’t organize it on their own and were following orders of ‘someone smarter’ somewhere. I was the unlucky bastard lawyer they set their sights on. I did some pro-bono work for the group, was at the protest, and had assisted by printing posters and sending emails for them, but the court decided that I was the mastermind that ground the business of the court to a halt for an entire week.”

Den sat bolt upright. “They what? Orcs are too dumb to protest without a human leading them? What the hell? I suppose they think OLM is led by a human or elf or something, too?”

Troy shook his head. “Keep in mind, this was twenty years ago.”

“If they’re out,” Den asked, “why are you still here?”

“I wasn’t included in the Salem Seven trial. Instead, I was charged with conspiracy to subvert government functions and given the maximum sentence of forty years with no possibility of parole. I’ll be seventy-two when I get out.” Troy stood and stretched. “The lead judge on my case called me a ‘traitor to my country and race’ before instructing the court reporter to strike that comment.”

“Damn. So, the lead judge was a human?” the orc asked.

“No, Judge Ellen Starcher, elf. You know, the um….” Troy trailed off.

“The new lady elf on the High Court?” Den asked. “The one that everyone says should retire?”

“Yeah, that’s the one.”

Den leaned forward. “So, what happens now?”

“Assuming you don’t break me in half, I’m not planning on shanking you — or anyone, for that matter.” Troy chuckled. “Now that we’re both over being scared of each other, I guess we do our time. And if you want, I can help you work on your appeal.”

Trunk Stories

Stranger

prompt: Write a story inspired by the saying “Revenge is a dish best served cold.”

available at Reedsy

The stranger sat under a gelfim tree, shielded from the patchy rain and harsh sunlight, enjoying a mixed berry shave ice. Outside the gelfim’s shade, rising heat from the baked ground evaporated the rainwater as fast as it hit, turning the park into a giant sauna.

Those brave souls that ventured into the chaotic summer weather didn’t spare more than a glance at the stranger. It was obvious she didn’t belong here, and they didn’t want to catch her attention. For some it was fear, but most simply had no desire to be begged for a few credits by yet another war veteran from another world.

The stranger watched those that ignored her. From a distance, they seemed almost normal. She found it amusing how many of them stopped at the small pushcart for a shave ice. Something that, like her, came from another world. Unlike her, though, it had been readily adopted and assimilated as local.

One of the locals crossed the park, headed straight for where the stranger sat under the gelfim. The local’s antennae twitched nervously on the sides of her face, her ear slits open wide. She kept her head on a swivel as she approached, watching for what the stranger couldn’t guess. With a four-digit hand, she held out a bottle of water for the stranger.

“It’s dangerous out here you know, and with this heat you need to stay hydrated.”

“Thank you,” the stranger said. She took the bottle in her sun-darkened, olive-brown hand, enjoying the cold of it. “You’re too kind.”

“It’s the least I could do,” she said. “I’m Brithelt. I work in the War Veterans’ Assistance Bureau, in the main square off the other side of the park. If there’s anything I can do to help, stop by.”

“Thanks again, Brithelt. I’d tell you my name, but I don’t know what it was, and I hate the name Jane Doe.”

Brithelt waggled her antennae in assent. “I hope to see you again soon, Stranger.” She left the area under the gelfim walking so fast as to almost be running, only slowing down once she had reached the area where the shave ice vendor sat under an umbrella.

The stranger picked up her arm where it lay next to her and reattached it to the stump below her left shoulder. After flexing the robotic hand a couple times, she picked up her leg and attached it to the stump above where her left knee used to be.

She stood and picked up her heavy pack, slinging it over her shoulder. She’d have to find somewhere to sleep, and she hoped she could find something with air conditioning. Despite the technical nature of her arm, her prosthetic leg was basic, resulting in a rolling gait as she was forced to raise that hip to get the foot to clear the ground.

 The main square was busy for how miserable the weather was, but her destination was beyond that. She walked toward the industrial area. Cheaper accommodations could be found in the dirtier, noisier parts of cities. That was the same everywhere.

The stranger finally found a small boarding house behind a factory. She decided the cool, dry air in the room made up for the noise of the non-stop machines a scant fifty meters away that made, in all likelihood, more machines. The boarding house also didn’t require identification, accepted paper credits, and the room included an ensuite washroom.

She looked at herself in the dingy mirror of the washroom. Her close-cropped, light brown hair was sun-bleached to a straw blonde, her dark brown eyes looked black in the dim light of the room, and the scar that crossed from the bridge of her narrow nose across her left cheek, ending at her jaw stood out in sun-burned pink.

She took off her shirt, washed it in the sink, wrung it out, and hung it on the mirror to dry. She followed up by removing her leg and washing the sweat-soaked, padded sock and liner she wore under her prosthetic leg. After that, she did the same for the sock and liner for her arm.

The stranger filled the shallow tub with tepid water and climbed in. She scrubbed with soap and a rag, turning the water brown, then drained and refilled the tub to rinse as much of the residue off as she could.

She patted herself dry with a towel, grabbed her arm and leg, and hopped out to the room. She put the prosthetics where they got plenty of direct air from the vents, then lay on the hard bed to cool herself and drifted off to sleep.

The morning dawned heavily overcast with scattered showers, though the temperature remained high all through the night. The stranger walked out of the boarding house into a wall of damp heat.

She returned to the main square of the city and began searching for an address she had in her obsolete comm device. Spotting the address, she put the comm away and crossed the square to an office building. The doors opened with a blast of cool air and she walked in.

“Dr. Agellia?” she asked the receptionist.

“Take the lift to seven, his office is second to the right.”

The stranger nodded and took the elevator to the designated floor. She stopped just outside the elevator and set her pack on the floor. From her pack, she carefully unwrapped a small device. It was a box connected by wires to a metal halo. She pulled out two cylinders and screwed them into the halo.

Device in hand, she walked into the doctor’s office, under the sign that said, “Memory Treatments.”

She didn’t recognize him from anywhere other than the pictures she’d managed to find, but she saw his shocked recognition. His antennae twitched for a moment until he managed to get himself under control.

“I see you remember me,” she said. “Must be nice, I don’t remember you at all.”

“Where did you get that?” he asked, looking at the device she carried.

“Not your concern.” The stranger set the device on his desk. “This is the same thing you used on me, right?”

She leaned on the desk. “Don’t bother with an answer, I can see I’m right.”

“I didn’t want to do it,” he said, “because I knew it was a risk. You’d just been blown up in a covert op, for all the gods’ sake, but they made me.”

“They made you?” The stranger pulled out her comm device and played an audio recording. In it, Dr. Agellia could be heard saying, “We don’t know. We haven’t tried it on a human. Let’s test it on the Jane Doe. This could be valuable data. It’s not like she’s going to live much longer anyway. I’ll start small and erase just the mission.”

Agellia’s antennae flattened against his face, his ear slits opened wide. “But you’re here, so some memory must’ve come back.”

“No, doctor, it didn’t.” She pointed at the halo. “Put it on.”

“Now—now, this is not—this is a bad idea….”

“I said PUT IT ON!” She slammed her robotic hand on the desk, causing him to jump.

He sat frozen. The stranger picked up the halo and put it on his head. She flipped a switch on the device it was attached to and turned the dial all the way up.

“Can you fix my brain?” she asked.

“Wha—what?”

“My brain,” she said, pointing at her head. “Can you fix it? Can you get my memories back? I don’t even know my own goddamned name!”

“I can’t.”

“Can’t or won’t?” she asked.

“It’s not something I can do,” he said, his entire body trembling.

“It’s your choice. You either fix my brain, or I turn this on and those needles go into your brain, and I see how much of you I can erase.”

“But I—”

“Can it be done?!” She slammed her hand on the desk again for emphasis, making him jump once more.

“Theoretically, but I don’t know—”

“Good enough,” she said. She typed something into the device and turned the dial down. “I won’t erase your education. Just the last — say — six years. Everything that happened since just before you mangled my brain.”

“No, please! You’re being rash. Think this through!” he pleaded.

“I’ve been thinking this through for six years. Ever since I woke from a coma up in a military hospital ship, missing an arm and a leg, and filled with enough shrapnel to give a scrapyard operator a hard-on.”

She sighed. “Between surgeries, I had to learn all over how to talk, read, write, walk — with only one leg, mind you — and even tie my shoes one-handed. You. Took. My. Life.

“The only clues I had were that my DNA and prints were tied to a completely redacted military identity, and this recording on a burner comm. If anything, I’ve been patient.” She flipped the switch that sent the needles deep into his brain and started up the machine.

“I’ll see you when you wake up, stranger.”

Trunk Stories

The Helping Hand

prompt: Show how an object’s meaning can change as a character changes.

available at Reedsy

1984:

Gwen lay on the grass in the circle of mushrooms, drawing Fae-touched Fran, her comic heroine. Like her, Fran was a recent high-school grad, just a hair over five feet tall, with strawberry blonde hair, one green and one brown eye, and a spattering of freckles across her pale face.

Unlike her, Fran had been given a gift by the fae, The Helping Hand, a pendant that allowed her to teleport anywhere she desired, that just as often took her instead to where she was needed. Fran had no other superpowers, instead relying on her knowledge and day-to-day skills and talents to solve problems.

Gwen knew the fae weren’t real, mushroom rings were caused by the spreading mycelium, and teleportation and magic were as fictional as the fae. Still, the setting helped put her in the right frame of mind for Fran’s origin story.

It was while she was putting together the panels where Fran first found the pendant that something in the grass caught her eye. A glint of something metallic, less than two feet from where she lay. Gwen reached out and picked it up. It was a length of silver chain with a pendant. She turned the pendant over. It looked exactly as she had drawn The Helping Hand.

A pendant with a hand would have been one consequence too many. With the hand in the complicated pose she’d drawn — she was quite proud of how it had turned out — it was too much.

With shaking hands, Gwen clasped the chain around her neck. She held her portfolio in her left hand, grabbed the pendant with her right and thought of her bedroom.

She didn’t have time to feel silly about it, as she had no sooner thought of her room than she was there. Through practice and experimentation Gwen learned a few things. She didn’t need to hold the pendant to teleport, she should pick a quiet place near where she meant to go that she could show up to avoid having to explain how she appeared out of nowhere, most of the help she showed up for was of the mundane sort of lift this or push that, and the fae were very, very real.

1986:

Gwen had enough of Fae-touched Fran complete to fill two eight-issue volumes. Since her portfolio went everywhere with her, every spare moment was spent expanding the world of Fran, her own experiences adding color and flavor to the series.

She left work one evening after the mall closed, found herself alone and too tired to walk home, so she teleported. Rather than her studio apartment, however, she found herself standing in front of a shocked man in a beige business suit, trying to balance on a rolling office chair to change a light.

Gwen dropped her case and held the chair steady. “Go ahead and finish what you’re doing,” she said. “I can explain later.”

The man changed the light bulb, taking far longer than he should have, owing to his watching her rather than what he was doing. When he stepped down, Gwen picked up her portfolio, ready to disappear from this unknown man’s life forever. She was stopped though, by his question.

“Are you a superhero?” he asked.

“What?”

“You just appeared out of thin air.” He cleared his throat and extended a hand. “Sorry. Mike Jeffkins, owner and managing editor of Martial Comics.”

Gwen shook his hand. “Gwen Brookes, shift manager, Central Mall food court. That’s in British Columbia, by the way. I take it we’re in New York?”

“Baltimore. You said you could explain?”

Gwen thought about showing him her work but felt it would be out of place. Instead, she started telling him the story of how she’d been drawing a comic and discovered the pendant.

He stopped her. “Is that what you have in the case — the comic?”

Gwen nodded. “It’s probably not good enough.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Mike said. “Let’s take a look.”

She laid her sketch pads on the desk, and he began to read. She watched as his fingers traced the lines just above the paper. He was feeling the flow of the panels as she had laid them out, with the lines in each leading into the next, bringing the eyes along.

He read through the entire volume one and started on volume two which opened with the flashback to Fran finding the pendant. Mike looked up from the page to the pendant hanging around Gwen’s neck.

“This is where you found the pendant?”

“I was drawing this panel,” she said, pointing at the panel where Fran dons the necklace, “when I saw it in the grass. But everything in these were drawn in the order you just read them.”

“I see the improvement in your confidence. The lines are bolder and flow even better than in the earlier pages. But,” he said, “if you found it then, how did…?”

“One thing I’ve learned, the fae exist and are fickle. They must’ve thought it would be a kick to make my silly story true.” Gwen shrugged. “I try not to think too hard about it. Besides, this thing rocks. Do you have any idea how useful it is to just teleport where you want to go?”

1998:

Martial Comics was bought out by one of the big publishers, and Fran was killed off in their massive team-up and cross-over series. Without responsibilities to her comic, Gwen found herself idle. She decided to take some local classes. Basic household maintenance classes included fixing leaking faucets, changing light fixtures, switches, and plugs. She learned basic automotive maintenance, gardening, and how to groom dogs.

She wished she hadn’t learned how to groom dogs when she teleported to a muddy dirt road somewhere in the Midwest. Before her stood a shivering husky puppy, his coat matted and caked with mud providing no protection against the cold rain. She carried the poor, bedraggled critter down the road to a veterinary office — with no groomers on staff, of course.

By the time she finished getting the pup clean, dry, and in the care of the vet, she’d missed her dinner date, and her new dress was ruined. After returning home to trash the torn, stained dress with piles of dog hair all over it, she removed the necklace and stuffed it under the jumble in the kitchen junk drawer.

When she woke in the morning, it was back around her neck. She left it at home on the nightstand while she took the four-hour drive to the coast for some much-needed relaxation. She was flying down the highway when it materialized around her neck again.

Locking it in a fire safe didn’t work. The bank’s safe deposit box didn’t fare any better. She tried shipping it to a paranormal investigator halfway across the country, but before she got home from the post office, it was back around her neck.

She looked at it in the mirror. “Why won’t you leave me alone?” she asked. “I’m sick of you.”

2011:

Gwen had begun approaching it like a job a few years prior. Five days a week she would teleport somewhere three or four times, until she inevitably ended up somewhere she didn’t expect. Once there, she did whatever had to be done and teleported back home.

She’d talked more than one person down from the figurative ledge, and a young woman from a literal one. She coddled infants while their overwhelmed mothers got a break, tended toddlers while the day-care workers located the source of smoke or held off a non-custodial parent, and helped teens deal with their angst in healthy ways.

She’d changed countless tires and repaired switches and outlets in everything from single-wide mobile homes to mansions. She had to stifle her laughter after fixing a dripping faucet in a multi-million-dollar home led to the owner being so relieved he cried. The faucet stopped dripping, but now he is, she thought.

On days when she wasn’t teleporting here and there, she sought out mushroom circles and sat in them in hopes that the fae would return and take the burden from her. When that didn’t happen, she resigned herself to her burden.

The publisher that had killed off Fran decided to bring her back in a teen dramedy, and Gwen was invited as a writer. The new owners of the publisher were fans and wanted her pure vision.

The entire run of Fae-touched Fran was re-released under a renewed Martial Comics banner, providing Gwen with more royalties in a year than she’d gotten from the original Martial Comics in twelve. She maintained her simple lifestyle though, and the money she didn’t need went to charity at the end of each month.

2024:

Gwen had just finished helping a farmer get her tractor running in Iowa and tried to teleport back home, only to find herself in a hospital room. Red tape with the letters “DNR” in white was stuck to the headboard, the heart monitor, and the chart on the wall. In the bed next to her lay a grey, pallid old man with a familiarity she couldn’t place, until he opened his eyes.

“Mike?”

“Gwen,” his voice was just above a whisper and wavered as if it took all his strength to talk. “I was wishing you were here, and now you are.”

She pulled a chair next to the bed, sat, and held his hand. “I’m here, Mike. I’m sorry I haven’t written or called in so long. I didn’t even know you were sick.”

“I’m just as bad,” he said. “After my brother died last year, I’ve been so alone. I thought about calling you a thousand times but thought it would’ve been weird.”

“No weirder than me popping up out of nowhere twice in your life.” Gwen sighed. “Most of what I do amounts to little more than I did for you — holding a chair so you didn’t fall.”

“You did more than that.”

“Well, sure. I’ve helped a few people at least with bigger things. Most cases, though, it’s nothing more than a couple minutes of simple assistance.” Her vision blurred behind tears. She knew why she was there and hoped it would be more than a couple minutes.

“I don’t think you understand,” he said. “Holding the chair wasn’t what I needed, Fran was what I needed. Without it, Martial would’ve gone bankrupt long before the big boys swooped in and bought it out. You saved me, in a very literal sense.”

“I wish I could do something now,” she said.

“You are. I sat with my brother, hard as it was, to make sure he didn’t die alone. Now I won’t die alone, right?”

“You won’t. I’m not going anywhere.”

“I saw the show, thought it was pretty good.” He closed his eyes, and a slight smile crossed his face. “They were smart to put you on the writing team for it. I knew it was your work in the first two minutes of the first episode. It wouldn’t be the same without you.”

“Thanks, Mike. Your opinion means more to me than anyone else’s. You saw my raw talent and took on an untrained kid.” Tears began to trek down her cheeks unbidden. “You saved me, at least as much as I saved you.”

“Fine, kid. We’re even. I’m glad you’re still doing it,” he said, “but for the life of me I can’t figure out why. I would’ve given up on teleporting years ago if it meant I’d keep getting flung to the ends of the earth to help strangers hold a ladder or whatever. Why?”

“Why am I still doing it?” Gwen patted his hand. “I tried quitting, more than once. The longest I got was five weeks. It’s not even about the teleporting. I knew I could help people, and yet I wasn’t. That made me despise myself. So, I decided to keep doing it as long as I’m able.”

“I’m glad, because it means you’re here now. I never told you this, but I always thought of you as the daughter I never had. Every success of yours made me proud.”

“You know the entire crew at Martial called you ‘Dad’ behind your back, right?” she asked.

“I knew. It felt good, like maybe I was important to someone.”

“Ever since that first meeting you’ve been important to me,” Gwen said.

Mike winced and let out a long breath.

“What is it?”

“I’m just tired,” he said.

“I’ll let you sleep,” she said, holding his hand in both of hers, “and I’ll be right here holding your hand.”

Gwen held his hand and listened as his breathing slowed and eventually stopped. She didn’t release his hand until the doctor came in and turned off the monitors. She felt the weight of the pendant against her chest as she made her way to the nearest restroom to teleport out unseen.

She stood in her living room trying to decide what the pendant was to her now. It had started as the best thing ever, turned into a curse, a burden, and now, she realized, it was as natural to her as breathing. The Helping Hand, she decided, just — was.

Trunk Stories

No Glory

prompt: Your character gets everything they ever wanted — only to realize the true cost.

available at Reedsy

Glory, honor, the chance to prove himself. For any warrior, this would be the chance of a lifetime. For Kendrick, however, prophesied to perform the greatest feat a person could, this was everything. The enemy was encroaching on his clan’s sacred lands. Not other clans, not even people, no. People knew well enough to leave sacred spaces unsullied.

No, these were abominations that shouldn’t exist. They had no connection to the land, no history in this place beyond the last few moons. In those few moons, though, they built their monstrous edifices close to the sacred river on one side and loosed their gargantuan beasts over lands that bordered the shared burial grounds of all the clans.

These giant creatures looked like people, but on an immense scale. If Kendrick was to drive them out, it would require his deep connection to the land. That, and the intelligence and keen minds of people compared to the slow, stupid giants.

Kendrick donned his uniform and headed out to scout the giants in the forest. They weren’t difficult to spot when one knew where to look, but they were surprising in their ability to be stealthy when they desired.

He came across a couple of them, both females. He used his years of experience to climb into the lower canopy without making a sound. If there were females here, there had to be males close by. They wouldn’t let their females wander too far without protection.

As he scanned as far as he could see, the giantesses below him grunted at each other, and one of them scratched marks on a stack of leaves with a stick that had a burnt end.

Clever, but hardly indicative of intelligence. It was likely she saw a person writing and was copying what she’d seen. The leaves were probably because they weren’t smart enough to make clay tablets on which to write.

A crashing in the brush caught his attention. Four males showed up and they grunted at the females. An exchange of grunts later, the females followed the males back into the heavy brush.

Kendrick waited until they were completely out of hearing and returned to the forest floor. Following them would be simple enough. Each of their footprints were as long as he was tall. The female had dropped her burnt stick. It had seemed small in her hand but was nearly as tall as him. The outside was coated in some sort of paint and was smoothed round.

For the time being, he hid the scratching stick in the brush so he could bring it back to the elders to study. He had tracks to follow, if he was to learn everything he could about the monsters. Only fools rushed to attack an enemy they didn’t understand, and Kendrick was not going to be a fool today or any day.

The giants covered great distances in a short time, their immense strides taking them through the forest at a pace unsustainable for any but the largest or swiftest creatures. Even here, though, people had an advantage over the monsters. Through their connection to the forest, people had developed methods of travel that far-outstripped walking or running.

The tracks led to a worn path the size of a major road. In parts, it was as wide as the entire village square. Kendrick followed it to the edge of the clearing where the giants had erected their constructions made from trees torn out of the ground and ripped into strips. He didn’t know how they accomplished that, but he didn’t want to face that kind of strength head-on. He would if he had to, but a harassing strategy was looking like his best bet and there was no one more capable of it than him.

He climbed a tree just a little way back from the clearing, all the way to the very top. Once atop the tree, he unfurled his wings from the pack on his back and jumped. To say he could fly would be an overstatement. Instead, the wings allowed him to soar, gliding down unless he caught a strong updraft. Here in the forest, those kinds of updrafts didn’t happen.

He managed to sail all the way back to where he’d stashed the burnt stick. The elders would know what kind of wood it was, and what kind of paint was on the outside. They might even know how the monsters found such smooth, straight sticks in the first place.

The stick wasn’t overly heavy, but it was too cumbersome to climb with, so he had to walk the rest of the way back to the village. It was nearing sunset when he returned.

Not wanting to alarm anyone with the giant’s stick, he snuck into the village from the back side and made straight for the elder’s hall. The walls were formed of a cottonwood tree that was grown around a clay form. Once the burl formed completely around the clay, it was hollowed out by breaking and removing the clay, and a door added.

Kendrick brought the stick to the elders, who sat around their table, enjoying mushroom soup by the light of a glow-worm lamp. “Elders, one of the monsters, a female, was mimicking writing with this burnt stick on a pile of leaves.”

They all rose from their meal and gathered around to examine the stick. “So smooth,” said the first. “This paint is so even,” said the second. The third sniffed at the blackened end, her forehead crinkled, and she scraped at it with a knife.

The look of consternation didn’t leave her face. The more she scraped, the more blackened dust it created. She grabbed a hatchet from the workbench and began chopping away at the end of the stick.

The more she chopped, the more concerned she looked. Finally, she began chopping at the middle of the stick until the black core showed there as well.

“This is a finely made instrument, not a painted, burnt stick.” She carefully carved away more of the wood from the dark central rod, until the rod broke. “Notice how soft the center is, in order to leave marks. This was not grown like this, either. It was made from dead wood and whatever this central rod is.”

“How can you tell, Grandmother?” Kendrick asked. She wasn’t his actual grandmother, but everyone in the village, including the other elders, “Grandfather” and “Great Aunt ,” called her that.

“Look here,” she said. “This faint line. This is two pieces of dead wood, joined together somehow.”

“You’re saying the giants are smart?” he asked.

“I’m saying they are like people,” she said.

“How will I fulfill my prophecy?” he asked. “If they were brute monsters, I could scare them from the forest and they would leave us alone for many generations. If you’re saying they’re as smart as people….”

“That’s not what Grandmother said,” Great Aunt cut in. “She said they are people.”

“But how? People know how to work with the trees for what they need, rather than kill them. They kill their own beasts and eat their flesh. They are monsters, through and through.” Just saying what he knew of them sent shivers down Kendrick’s spine.

Grandfather chuckled. “Did you think that combat was the only way to fulfill a prophecy? Maybe you’re meant to talk to them and ask them to leave.” He broke down in a coughing laugh until Grandmother caught his eye with her stern expression.

“Kendrick. You’ve worked your whole life toward this,” she said, “but maybe in the wrong direction. Still, take the skills you have and do what you can to keep the giant people from crossing into the burial grounds.”

“I will,” he said. “I will keep them out, even if costs my life.” He strode out of the elder’s hall into the lengthening shadows with a sense of dread purpose.

As the door closed behind him, he heard Great Aunt tut and exclaim, “Always so serious, that one.”

Kendrick spent the night preparing his weapons and trying to decide if anyone should join him as he went to confront the monster people. He ultimately decided he would be better off doing it alone. He set up a mind stone up in his room that would record everything he experienced. Every sight, sound, scent, and vibration; even those he didn’t consciously notice.

If he did die, the elders would know to look for the stone and discover what happened. Either way, he knew he was heading out to fulfill his prophecy.

It took two glides from the tallest trees to reach the trail at the edge of the monsters’ clearing. There was activity in the clearing, with the monsters using open fire to roast the flesh of their slain beasts.

It took all Kendrick had not to vomit, but he steeled himself as he had done in combat with the other clans in the past. The creatures were busy and not paying attention to the tree line, so he took advantage of that. He climbed to the top of one of the trees on the very edge of the clearing, careful to keep himself hidden among the leaves, his uniform providing perfect camouflage.

Three times as he moved into position, one or more of the creatures looked right at him. They must have excellent hearing, he thought. Each time, he froze and waited for them to look away. Since there was no other reaction from them, he was certain he hadn’t been spotted.

Kendrick readied his spear, unfurled his wings, and jumped. He wouldn’t be able to kill them with a single blow, but if he could get over the fire, he could ride the thermals up and keep diving at them and harassing them with his blade.

 Faster than he thought they would be able, one of the females turned and put a hand out, stopping him before he reached the fire. “And now I die,” he said. He froze. There he stood on her palm and any moment now, she would squeeze, and he would be dead.

The blow never came. Instead, the female grunted at him. It sounded like words. The accent was thick, but she was…speaking?!

“Wh—what?” he stammered.

“We’re not going to hurt you, little guy, but you gotta be careful. You almost flew into the fire.” He looked at the giantess. It was the same one he’d seen the previous day, and she had another of the writing sticks behind her ear.

Kendrick growled and raised his spear. “I was going to use the thermals to gain altitude. If you hadn’t seen me, you’d be bleeding profusely right now. I may have lost the element of surprise, but I challenge you all to combat!”

“Why do you want to hurt me?” she asked.

“You’re monsters! You eat the flesh of your beasts and kill the trees. You have no connection to the forest, and yet you are here, defiling it.” He held an aggressive pose on her palm, doing his best to keep from trembling.

“We don’t want to defile anything,” she said. “That’s why we chose this clearing under a dead tree and the wood from it to build our shacks. We’re only going to be here for a year or two, cataloging the animals, then, when we leave, the jungle will reclaim all this and, in a decade or less, it will be as if we were never here.”

“How do you speak the language of people?” he asked. “Are you demons?”

“I was going to ask how a little flying guy in the Amazon speaks Welsh,” she said.

Kendrick moved to jump. His first thrust would be her eye to incapacitate her. Glory was in his hands now.

His lunge was cut short by her other hand blocking him and taking the brunt of the blow. She didn’t even wince as the spear sunk into the meat of her palm. Instead, she pulled her hand away, taking his spear with it. A shake of her hand freed the spear to drop to the ground below.

They stared at each other for a few seconds, Kendrick still doing his best to look intimidating. She broke the stalemate. “We’ve seen you several times over the past few weeks. We saw you watching us yesterday. You seemed interested in my pencil,” — another word he didn’t understand until she pointed at the stick behind her ear — “so, I left it for you.”

“How did you see me? I am invisible in the trees.” She shook off his strongest blow and it wasn’t even worthy of a mention. He felt glory slipping away.

She laughed; a monstrous, deep, booming laugh that made his knees weak. “If you want to be sneaky, maybe don’t wear chartreuse and orange.” He didn’t understand a couple of the words, but she smiled at him. “Those bright colors really stand out.”

Kendrick looked at his drab, spotted uniform. There was nothing bright about it. Maybe their eyes just worked different to his. This was getting him nowhere. He had a task, and it was time to do it. He thought about what Grandfather had said, joking or not.

He relaxed his stance. “My name is Kendrick, the strongest warrior of my clan. I have been sent to keep you from entering sacred lands.”

“Pleased to meet you, Kendrick, I’m Anwen. Now, which lands are your sacred lands?”

Kendrick turned in her palm and gestured to the west. “The river toward the sunset from here is strictly for the gods, and all the plants that grow on its shore as well. Do not drink from it, do not water your plants from it, do not allow beasts to drink from it, and do not eat anything that grows within a hundred paces of the river. That’s, um, my paces, not yours.”

“Oh, yes, the creek,” she said. “There’s uranium in the creek. That’s a poisonous rock. We will continue to avoid it. Anywhere else?”

He turned to the south. “There is a clearing to that direction, that lies along the sacred river. Nothing grows there except the stones that mark our dead before their soul travels the gods’ river to the afterlife. It is the shared graveyard of all the clans and is holy ground. Do not go there.”

“Of course,” she said. “We don’t want to disturb your sacred sites, and certainly not your graveyard. Although, one of the horses got loose last week and wandered close to there. Unfortunately, he ate some grass while he was near the river and is sick now. I don’t think he’s going to make it. Is there anywhere else?”

“That is all. I will not reveal the location of our village, or any other clan’s village.”

“You have our word, Kendrick.” Anwen smiled. “You can tell your people that we will be staying here, and in the jungle to the east while we study the animals around here. We’d like to learn more about you and your people, and let your people learn more about us, but we won’t force you. If any of your people want to hang out with a bunch of nerdy humans, you know where to find us. We’ll even make sure to cook vegetarian for you.”

“I never thought I’d talk to a monster, and I never thought a monster would turn out to be a person after all.” Kendrick wanted to get home, but that would require climbing at least twice, unless…. “Anwen, may I ask a favor?”

“Sure, Kendrick. What do you need?”

“Could you move closer to the updraft from the fire?”

“Are you sure?” she asked. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“I’m sure.”

She moved her hand over the edge of the fire pit, where Kendrick could feel the warm air rising. He unfurled his wings and jumped, circling to climb high above even the tallest trees on the rising column of air. As he circled ever higher, he caught sight of their food stores; baskets of fruit, mushrooms, strange vegetables he’d never seen, and the largest supply of honey he’d ever laid eyes on. One of them was putting it into a mug of hot water with a bag of something.

Once he was high enough, he left the thermal to glide home. He couldn’t wait to tell the elders about the monsters — giant people, he reminded himself — and their offer. There was to be no moment of glory or honor for a warrior. His single attack attempt had been foiled by only one of the giants, and he’d ended up just asking them. Still, he’d accomplished what he set out to do and he knew he would be back, if for no other reason than to sample their vegetables and honey.

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Trunk Stories

Final Appeal

prompt: Your character wants something very badly — will they get it?

available at Reedsy

There is little in life more disappointing than having the target of your desire snatched from your grasp at the last moment. Alex knew that feeling all too well. The third time was not the charm, as the saying would have one believe; neither were the fourth, fifth or sixth.

Alex smoothed her jumpsuit. It was a copy of the ones worn by everyone else around her, made smaller and shaped to fit her. The cool grey of the jumpsuit clashed with her warm, golden-brown skin, reddish brown hair, and bright brown eyes, but she’d gotten used to it.

“Are you okay, little one?” The querent wore a matching jumpsuit, though half a meter taller, with six sleeves that decreased in size from the top pair to the bottom, heavily sloped shoulders, and a collar that would look at home on an alpaca.

The creature that filled out the jumpsuit had pale blue skin under a thick layer of grey-white vellus hair. Large, oval, compound eyes reflected the light from the windows like a finely cut gem.

“You can’t call me that anymore, Gerla.” Alex crossed her arms in an exaggerated huff. “I’m an adult now. I don’t know for sure, but I’d guess I’m twenty-one or two in Earth years.”

“Yes, but I’m still bigger than you.”

“Not fair. I’m tall for a human, especially a human woman, but you’ll always be taller.”

“I’ll always be older as well.” Gerla petted Alex’s hair with one of their top hands. “You’ll always be the baby that was dropped off with me by the scout mission.”

“Baby nothing. I was seven and tending a flock of sheep by myself.” Alex sighed. “I guess I should be grateful that they brought me here instead of straight to the labs.”

“Almost as grateful as I am,” Gerla said.

Alex hugged the creature. “Quit being so sweet, Gerla. I’m trying to be mad at you for calling me little.”

“You can be mad at me after the hearing. We’ll have time for it then.” Gerla moved one compound eye close to Alex’s face and the nictitating membrane closed and opened over it. Alex recognized it as always coming before a serious question.

“What is it?”

“Why are you still trying?” the creature asked. “What do you hope to gain? Freedom to return to your home?”

Alex shook her head. “This is my home — here with you, and all my friends. I can’t even remember what my mother or father looked like, or the name of the hills where we lived.”

“Then why?”

Alex stepped back from Gerla and spread her arms. “What do you see when you look at me?”

“I see Alex—”

“No,” she cut them off, “when you really look at me. You see a human, the only one on this planet. At least the courts have finally decided I’m sapient, after completing all the normal schooling a thoran child would receive and learning all the official languages of Sular.

“Still not a citizen, though. Still an orphan, as they won’t let you legally adopt me.” She dropped her arms to her sides and a hardness overtook her face. “This is my last chance. The final appeal. I’ve overcome every obstacle they’ve thrown in my way, just for them to find new, inventive ways of denying me this last, simple thing.”

“A finding from the court means nothing,” Gerla said. “It also doesn’t matter that we share no DNA, you are my progeny, and I am your progenitor. Forever—”

“And always,” Alex finished. “But this is important to me.”

Gerla put an arm around Alex’s shoulders. “I’m behind you all the way.”

Alex nodded and checked the time on the wall display. “We’re up.”

The heavy white doors opened with a soft hiss and Alex marched into the courtroom, head held high. She stood at the tall bench which reached her armpits.

A bailiff brought over a small step for her, so she would be tall enough to talk into the microphone and she accepted it with a polite smile. Unlike the other appeals as she worked her way up in the system, this courtroom was packed with spectators.

There was a steady murmur that spread through the crowd as she entered and continued until the bell of court rang and brought them all to their feet. The judges entered and sat at their bench, above the courtroom where they looked down on the proceedings.

The bell rang again, and the spectators sat. The attorney for the state tilted their head towards Alex and slowly closed and opened their nictitating membranes. Alex returned the silent greeting as best she could with a head tilt and slow blink.

The lead judge spoke. “We are gathered to hear the case of Alex, semi-sapient specimen, petitioning for Sulari citizenship. Is that correct?”

The state’s attorney made no move to correct the judge, so Alex herself did. “Your honors, the District of Corima court declared me fully sapient and capable of entering into legal contracts over four revolutions ago.”

“State’s attorney, is this correct?” one of the other judges asked.

“It is, your honors.”

“You would do well to keep your motions up to date. Seeing that this appeal was filed two revolutions ago, the state had ample time to update their position.” The lead judge flipped papers with their lowest, smallest hands, while their upper hands formed the pose for a query.

“Given that the State’s initial position was based on the plaintiff’s status as a semi-sapient, am I to take it that your arguments are all based on that as well?”

“No, your honors. Our arguments are valid regardless of the findings of the lower court on plaintiff’s sapience.”

“Very well. The court will hear the plaintiff’s arguments first.”

The four judges looked toward the plaintiff’s bench, and the one closest to that end raised their upper hands in query. “Are we to understand that you are representing yourself? Here? In the highest court in the land?”

“I am, your honors.”

“If you would indulge us, why?”

Alex tilted her head. “The reasoning for that will be become clear in my arguments, your honors.”

“Very well. Proceed.”

“I would first like to say that, contrary to the State’s fears, I do not plan on attempting to return to the planet of my origin and providing advanced technology to a savage world.”

“Objection! Assumption of motive,” the state’s attorney called out.

“Sustained,” the head judge said. “Please stick to the facts.”

Alex smiled. “I call your attention to plaintiff’s evidence items one through four. These are the rejection letters for my adoption from the Enclave, City, District, and State. In every one of them, the stated reason is that I may, and I quote, ‘Return to the planet of origin and provide that savage world with advanced technology.’ End quote.”

The state’s attorney seemed to shrink. Alex knew how old those documents were, and as she’d only found them after the last lost appeal — buried within the mountain of discovery her last attorney had largely ignored — was certain that they hadn’t thought they would be brought up.

“Which brings me to the point of self-representation. Besides missing these documents in discovery, my previous attorney was too expensive to continue with. Having no rights as a citizen, I can’t work to earn money. Being unable to support myself, I am, as an adult, still as reliant on Gerla, my state-appointed guardian, as I was a child.”

Alex looked at each of the judges in turn as she spoke. “I was brought here by a scouting party as a ‘biological sample’ eighteen revolutions ago. I did not come of my own volition, I did not volunteer, and I am not a refugee. I am, however, in every other sense, an orphan now. I don’t remember much of my family on Earth or even Earth itself.”

She took a deep breath. “If not for Gerla, I would likely have been dissected long ago. They taught me the languages of Sulari, how to read and write, and everything I needed to know to get by in thoran society, except for how to turn into a thoran.”

She swallowed hard. “In the Sulari constitution, citizenship is offered to every person, no matter where born, by naturalization of twelve revolutions. I remind the court, I have been here for eighteen revolutions.

“It is arguable that when that was written, one-thousand, two-hundred-eighteen revolutions ago, ‘person’ meant only thoran. As of two-hundred-nine revolutions ago, though, that no longer holds true.

“This court, in the case of The Senate versus Senator Burla, found that any sapient is entitled to the same protections offered to ‘persons’ in the constitution. If that truly is the case, why, historically, has that extended only to protection against abuse and not protection against disenfranchisement?

“I would like to also call your attention to the Sulari Book of the Law, volume four-hundred, Section thirty-four-eighty-two-point-nine, paragraph two. ‘Pursuant to Galactic Trade Laws, Sular will make no law nor finding that is in violation of the Galactic Rights of Sapients, as ratified on the seventh day of revolution three-thousand-twelve.’

“The Galactic Rights of Sapients, number eight, which has remained unchanged since then states, ‘Any sapient who is unable to return to their home world or another world of their species, shall be considered stateless. No member state of the Galactic Trade may refuse citizenship to a stateless sapient on request.’

“The state has already made it clear that I cannot return to my home planet, and my species only has the one. As such, the quoted laws make the state’s actions illegal and unconscionable.”

Tears began to pool in her eyes. “Your honors, I have no illusions about my position. In time, Gerla will grow old and feeble, no longer able to work. The state will provide for her retirement, but that retirement doesn’t cover feeding, clothing, and housing me.

“Further, that retirement is only the barest of essentials. Gerla has been a parent to me and taken care of me the majority of my life. I’m just asking for the right to take care of them in their old age. As a citizen, and as their lawfully adopted progeny, I can do that. As a ‘biological sample that happens to be sapient’, I can’t.”

Alex wiped her tears. “Thank you, your honors. Nothing more.”

She’d done her best, taken her best shot. Now it was down to the state’s attorney and the judges. Alex listened to the state’s attorney hem and haw over reasons why she shouldn’t be allowed citizenship. When it turned, inevitably, to travel to Earth with all the ‘dangerous technology’ of the thorans, she couldn’t help but roll her eyes.

Finally, the state’s attorney ran out of steam, and the judges left the chamber to discuss and make their decision. This was the part she hated the most, the waiting.

The wait was short, the judges returning in a matter of minutes. The lead judge said, “I have some questions for the plaintiff.”

“Yes, your honor.” Alex’s heart fell. This didn’t feel like it was going to be good news.

“How many of your previous attorneys brought up the original rejection letters?”

“None, your honor.”

“And how many of them brought up the Sulari constitution — specifically, naturalization?”

“One, your honor.”

“And did that one bring up The Senate versus Senator Burla?”

“No, your honor.”

They tilted their head. “And how many of your attorneys brought up the Galactic Rights of Sapients, and legal Section three-four-eight-two-point-nine, paragraph —” they flipped through their notes, “— paragraph two?”

“None, your honor.”

“Where did you study law?”

“In the law library of District of Corima. Gerla was kind enough to escort me there every spare moment for the last two revolutions so I could prepare for this.”

“No formal schooling?” one of the other judges asked.

“No, your honor. As a non-citizen, I’m not entitled to free education, and on Gerla’s salary there was no way we could afford it.”

The lead judge took over again. “If given citizenship, you mentioned you want to work. What kind of work would you do?”

Alex shrugged. “Anything. I’ll tend livestock, scrub floors, anything.”

They tilted their head again. “Have you considered a career in law?”

“I, uh — not until this moment.”

The judges whispered among themselves, then the bell rang again. The judges stood, and the spectators stood as well.

“It is the finding of this court that the plaintiff has neither the motive nor the means to return to their home planet. As such, the state has violated Sulari law, Section three-four-eight-two-point-nine. Plaintiff is awarded full citizenship immediately, and the rejection of the original adoption request is hereby overturned.”

The lead judge raised their upper hands in query. “Is your adoptive progenitor here today?”

“Yes, your honor.”

“One of the bailiffs will escort you to my office where I will be honored to perform your swearing-in ceremony and sign your adoption decree. As a citizen, I would highly recommend law school, and I hope to see you here again in the future, representing someone else.”

Trunk Stories

I Want to Be Here for You

prompt: Write about someone who summons the creative muse through a convoluted ritual or method.

available at Reedsy

Kiera was tired of waiting for inspiration to strike, she decided to force the issue. She’d recently gone off on a study binge and devoured the contents of dusty old tomes of summoning. Everything she found on calling forth entities from other realms was jumbled together in her head, and she was going to put it to use.

She set up a chair and desk in the center of her attic. Her laptop sat on the desk, next to a water bottle and a packet of pretzels. Around the entire setup she drew a circle in chalk.

Kiera placed a candle at each of the cardinal points. She followed each placement with a symbol drawn around the candle base, and chanting in what the books called “the language of angels.” It sounded more like mangled Latin to her, but she was ready to try anything.

It wasn’t one of the host of demons or angels or other entities she wanted to summon, though, so she replaced the name with “Mūsa.” After placing the fourth and final candle and completing the last symbol and chant, she sat at the desk and turned on her laptop.

She opened her writing app, and a cursor on a blank screen blinked at her. Kiera focused on her breath, and on the space around her. If she could’ve done it, she would’ve grown cat whiskers to feel everything within the circle.

The energy she spent trying to stay cognizant of every eddy and current of air in the circle kept her from feeling as silly about the whole thing as she probably would have, had she stopped to think about it. Still, she was at the desk, the evening sky was darkening outside the attic windows and her world shrank to the light of the laptop and the candles.

When she’d finished for the night, she had bashed out six thousand words and had figured out how to build the transition to the next chapter. Kiera did feel a little silly chanting the dispelling portion of the ritual, but if she was going to do a thing, she’d damn well do it complete.

Seeing how well it had worked, Kiera decided to repeat the ritual the following afternoon. She had ten hours free, and she was going to put them to good use.

The chalk circle and symbols had faded, as though they’d been half-heartedly swept up. Just as well, as the entire ritual itself seemed to have unlocked some part of her mind that let her write uninterrupted for hours.

Kiera redrew the circle, placed new candles, drew the symbols, chanted the incantations. She sat and opened her writing app. No sooner had the cursor appeared than she felt a stirring of the air behind her.

She was still wondering if she should turn around and show herself that she was imagining something when she heard it. “Why?” the soft voice behind her asked.

Kiera whipped around to confront the intruder, who shrank back against the invisible barrier created by the summoning circle. It was a small figure, about the size of a small child, but as Kiera’s vision cleared, she could see they had eyes that held eons in their depths.

“Are you…?” she let the question drift off.

The figure still huddled against the invisible wall. “Your muse. Please don’t do it.”

“Do what?” Kiera held out a hand. “You don’t have to be afraid of me. I don’t want to hurt you. What’s your name?”

“You don’t know?”

She shook her head. “No, if I knew, I wouldn’t have asked.”

They seemed to relax some. “A muse doesn’t have a name, unless their assignment releases them by giving them a name.”

“Assignment?”

“You are my assignment.” Despite the more relaxed posture, the muse’s eyes carried a look of resignation rather than relief.

“What were you afraid I would do to you?”

“You have me trapped. You’ve summoned me to the physical plane, and I can’t leave until you release me.” The muse sat at the edge of the circle. “You almost got me yesterday, but I managed to stay out — barely.”

“I don’t even — well, until just now anyhow — didn’t believe in any of this. It was just a way to force my brain to focus on the work.”

“But you did believe it would summon your muse, and that’s why I’m here.” The muse continued to watch Kiera with a wary eye. “I’m just not part of your own mind, like you thought.”

Kiera crossed her arms. “What sort of thing would a person do to their muse that scares you so much?”

“This.” The muse closed their eyes and visions swam before Kiera. A circle, much like the one she sat in, but larger, surrounding a two-story house. In the circle,  just outside the house, the muse clawed at the barrier, shrieking in pain as they wasted away, as though they were starving to death in time-lapse. In the house, an elderly man stood nude, painting directly on the plastered wall. Kiera recognized the piece; Saturn Devouring One of his Children.

The vision faded and Kiera understood. “You were Goya’s muse, and he summoned you.”

“He was my assignment,” they said, “and he summoned me. He wouldn’t let me go for over three years, and my rage and pain filled his Black Paintings. When I was little more than a husk, the circle was dispelled by someone else. I still don’t know who.”

“Wait, if I take inspiration from you, it uses you up?”

“A little.”

“What restores you?”

The muse shrugged. “Rest. Enjoyment. Leisure.”

Kiera pursed her lips. “You really are a fickle muse, you know. It’s like you’re here, filling my head with ideas for a few days, then you disappear for weeks. Does it take that long to recover?”

“It…shouldn’t. I’m just…broken.”

Without thought for the little muse’s worry, Kiera knelt before them and gave them a hug. “You’re not broken. You’re wonderful. You’ve given me so many good stories over the years.”

“I just haven’t been right since—”

“Yeah.” Kiera continued to hug the little muse as they relaxed into the hug and began to weep. “You have some trauma to deal with, and I’ll help you any way I can.”

“Thank you,” the muse said. “Can I leave now? I’m not used to being in the physical realm.”

“In one minute.” Kiera leaned back and looked into the muse’s eyes. “You said you only get a name when your assignment names you, right?”

The muse nodded.

“Well, I can’t keep referring to you as ‘hey you,’ so let’s pick a name. Are you male or female?”

“No.”

“Hmm.” Kiera thought for a few seconds. “How about a name that works for either or both. Do you prefer Pat, Alex or Jesse?”

“I quite like the sound of Pat. It’s small, like me.” There was a hint of something more than fear or resignation behind the muse’s eyes; something like hope.

“Well then, your name is now Pat. I look forward to seeing you again soon, Pat. And really, thank you for all the stories.” Kiera chanted the dispelling chant, and the chalk circle faded.

Pat still stood before her. “Now that you have named me, you have no power to summon me. You’ve freed me, but I’ll come back soon,” they said as they disappeared from the physical realm.

Kiera sat back down at her laptop. “You better, Pat. But only after you take care of your own well-being.”

She typed away for hours. The horror of Pat’s ordeal, fresh in her mind, provided the fuel for the harrowing closing scenes. It was as the sun was rising that she stopped, having finished the first draft; the final chapters flowing out of her like a gushing river.

She opened the page of the document that contained the forward material and added, “To my muse: You’re not broken, but we all need someone to lean on from time to time. For all the times you were there for me, I want to be here for you. Thank you, Pat.”