Category: Trunk Stories

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.”

Trunk Stories

One Small Change

prompt: Write about someone who’s traveling to a place they’ve never been to meet someone they’ve never met.

available at Reedsy

Dr. A was probably the most famous anonymous person in the world. There are plenty of published scientists who are little-known and content to be private, and then there’s Dr. A. The Nobel committee spent over a year before they found someone who was in contact with the brilliant polymath. All their searching was met with an immediate refusal. Dr. A was not going to be seen in public, nor did they want the committee’s attention.

Despite this, the anonymous doctor had authored and published no fewer than seventy-four peer-reviewed papers in twenty-two journals. Every publication came with the same stipulation: the publication must be made available to the public for free, and all of Dr. A’s work is released into the public domain. With new insights in Quantum Mechanics, Physics, Materials Science, Mathematics, Optics, Medicine, Artificial Intelligence, and Economics, Dr. A’s work had sent dozens of industries leapfrogging each other to ever greater heights.

It was the Ultra-resolution MRI analyzed by a medical AI in a quantum computer that found a clump of four cancer cells in my brain. Besides finding the cancer, the UMRI was capable of focusing its magnetic field to a single cell, destroying it and the chemical signal it would normally send on apoptosis.

 I discovered I had brain cancer, and it was eliminated in the same visit, all without any symptoms. Since then, I’ve had annual follow-up visits where the procedure has been repeated. The largest clump was the second year, with nine cells. This year was the second in a row that there were none.

That’s all a very roundabout way of saying that, thanks to Dr. A’s work, I’m alive. As such, I’ve made it my mission to meet the person behind the pseudonym and shake their hand.

I started my search with the former members of the Nobel Committee for Physics, trying to contact the person or people who had contact with Dr. A in the past. After getting the runaround with emails, letters, phone calls, and even the odd fax, I decided I’d have to talk to someone in person.

Where I’d gotten put off, shuffled or ignored over other communications media, in person I was simply stonewalled. The committee and its members, past and present, take the privacy of recipients and nominees very seriously.

I’d spent nearly a month in Stockholm and was preparing to admit defeat, when I was approached in a coffee shop. I’m not sure that “approached” is the right word. A small person in a rain slicker brushed past me, reached out with a delicate, russet hand, and left a calling card in my coat pocket.

There was nothing on the card aside from a phone number. I waited until I was in my hotel room to call.

“You are looking for Dr. A?” the distorted voice that answered the call asked.

“Yes, I am. I—”

“Why?” they cut me off.

“I just want to meet them and thank them. I’m alive because of—”

“UMRI, nascent glioma. Multiple diagnoses and treatments,” the voice said, “we know. Is that all?”

“Is that all?!” Try as I might, I couldn’t keep my frustration out of my voice. “I want to meet the person who gave me the last nine years of my life, and every year that’s still to come after. I don’t care if I never learn their name or anything else about them. I just want…” I tapered off as realization hit.

“What is it you want?”

Brutal honesty was the tactic I chose. Not so much for the voice on the phone, but for myself. “I want to sit in the presence of someone so far beyond my intellect and just soak it in. It would be like being in the presence of a god.”

“You consider Dr. A a god?”

“No, that’s hyperbole. But I really do idolize them as humanity’s greatest modern benefactor. Dr. A is my sole hero.”

“Never meet your heroes.” The voice on the other end was quiet for a moment, then said, “If you want to continue your quest, call this number after you clear customs at Bagdogra airport.” There was nothing further as they hung up.

I spent the last week I had booked in Stockholm applying for an e-visa from India, picking it up at the Indian embassy, booking my flight to India, and canceling my flight home. At the recommendation of the woman at the Indian embassy, I also applied for and received an e-visa for Bhutan, since I’d be right there. Contrary to what I’d heard, it wasn’t difficult or expensive in the least.

I spent every moment I was out and about looking for the small person that had slipped me the card, but never saw them again. For just a moment, I thought maybe it was the woman at the embassy, but her nails were long, and her hands stained with faded henna. The hand that slipped the card into my pocket had neither.

I don’t know what I expected, but Bagdogra airport could’ve been any modern airport anywhere in the world. Some part of my mind was expecting something more…exotic, I guess. Ny unconscious bias leaking through.

When I called the number, the distorted voice answered on the first ring. “Your car is waiting,”

Considering what the voice on the phone knew about me already, it was no surprise that they were waiting for me as I arrived. I made my way out of the terminal and found a chauffeur standing in front of an old Toyota off-road truck with no top. The dissonance of the bespoke suit and pristine driving gloves of the tall man holding a sign with my name in front of a rugged, dented, and decidedly dirty truck did my head in. It seemed that my trip kept getting stranger by the minute.

He held the door for me, placed my single suitcase in the back, and gave a slight bow. The driver I hadn’t noticed, on account of her small stature, fired up the truck and we pulled into traffic as though we were racing to a fire.

After fifteen minutes in traffic, she turned onto a dirt road and sped up. Where I’d felt she was a dangerous driver before, now I thought she might be suicidal. No matter what I said, she never responded. I took the time to look at her hands. This might be the person that slipped me the card.

As the road disappeared and she drove through woods heading north, I watched her. There was something about the way she moved that convinced me she was the one.

I waited for a moment where the ground was a little smoother and the truck wasn’t rattling so much to say, “Thank you. … For slipping me the card, I mean.”

I couldn’t see her face, as there was no rear-view mirror, but I thought I saw her nod, just a little. It wasn’t until we finally stopped in front of a small house in the middle of nowhere that I thought about where we might be. The script on the door of the house was not like those I’d seen in India.

“We could’ve crossed at the official border,” I said, “I have a Bhutanese visa.”

The driver said, “I don’t. Neither does the doctor.” She got out of the truck and waited. There was to be no white-glove treatment here. I got out of the truck and grabbed my suitcase from the back. The dust of our off-road trip coated her face, and — I suspected — mine.

I followed her to the house, where we washed our hands, arms, and face in the icy water from a well pump. Following her lead, I took my shoes off on the small porch and followed into the house, dimly lit with a kerosene lamp in the deepening evening.

There, in an unassuming house in Bhutan, I met Dr. A and promised to keep their identity secret. They called the driver “Deva” even though I was assured that was not her real name.

The three of us had spicy chicken stew and red rice lager and talked into the wee hours of the morning. Both Deva and the doctor had done even more traveling in the previous weeks than I, and we were both out of whack with the local time, which made for a long conversation that began pleasantly enough.

What came next, however, soured the mood. The doctor told me that they were not the author of all the papers that bore their pseudonym. They had come from a future where the wealthy had pillaged everything the world had to offer before they traveled to the stars. The poor were left stranded and starving on a dying rock.

All the science that was changing medicine and physics and industry had been secret in their future and had been used to further enrich the wealthy and take them to the stars. Buried in the combination of it, they had missed how it made time travel possible. The doctor said their world had been different in the 2020’s, though.

I offered the possibility that other travelers had gone further back and changed something, and the doctor responded with the possibility that they had traveled to an alternate universe instead. Either way, they didn’t want to see what had happened to their world happen here.

When I asked about keeping the time travel secret, they said they weren’t worried about it. No one will believe it until the group of post-docs working on it at Caltech built the first working prototype. They estimated it would be done within the year. Once it’s built and proven, it’s a moot point.

The science has already been peer reviewed, the results replicated, and what could have amounted to billions of dollars’ worth of patents have been put into the public domain.

As I was preparing to leave, Dr. A said, “My world is already dead, my future is sealed. Yours is at the turning point. It’s up to you to do something about it.”

“How much of a difference can I make?” I asked.

They smiled, and the last thing they said to me was, “Think of all the time travel stories you know, how changing one small thing can drastically alter the future. That’s how. One small, positive change at a time.”

Trunk Stories

Knowing You’re Safe

prompt: Start your story with people arriving at a special ceremony.

available at Reedsy

The Bihrelli sidled close to me. They were an average sort of Bihrelli; hermaphroditic, bipedal, two-armed creatures just under one and a half meters in height, with huge, black eyes that made them cute. This one’s skin was a pale blue, with uneven pale brown spots. Their tail twitched in the way that showed nerves or fear. There was nothing unusual about that, at least for this one.

“Hi, Jordi.” I’d long ago given up trying to pronounce their name and used a close equivalent. They’d done the same with me, even though they were always so tense when we met.

“Greetings, Tŷlŷ.” They said the vowels like some sort of mega-diphthong that mixed a, i, o, and u. “I am glad you are here for this.”

“Me, in particular, or the embassy guard?” I asked.

Their tail twitched even harder. “It is always a pleasantness to be in your presence, but I am relieved to see you — a…and the other guards — here in armed uniform to keep us safe.”

“Do you think there might be trouble?”

“There are many who do not want to see this treaty finalized,” they said. Their tail wrapped around my ankle as they moved closer. “The Drogne Empire has publicly threatened Bihrel and said that a treaty with Terra would be treated as an act of war.”

I could feel the trembling of their tail against my ankle. “You’re safe here, Jordi. I’ll make sure of that.” I put a hand on their shoulder. “Do you really think Drogne will try to attack if Bihrel has the backing of the Terran Union?”

“I think it would be foolish of them, but it would not surprise me.” They seemed to realize that they had hold of my ankle, unwrapped their tail and took half a step backward. “I am sorry for the inappropriate action of my tail.”

I looked into their big eyes. “It’s okay. Why are you always so nervous around me?”

They grabbed their tail and held it in front of them. “You are so big, and your weapons are frightening, and I — uh — think you are pleasing to look at and talk to and I just wish that I could find someone like you to…” their voice dropped to a faint whisper, “to parent with.”

I smiled. I’d suspected they might have a crush on me, but now I knew. “Well, adoption is always an option, but don’t you think you should take me for a date first, at least?”

I don’t know why I said that. Was I serious? The last thing I’d want to do would be to play with Jordi’s feelings and hurt them. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that maybe I was serious. At the very least, I knew there was more to Jordi than just the cute puppy vibe that Bihrelli had.

“Natalia, report.” The voice over the radio interrupted my thought.

“West entry, no traffic. Jordi’s keeping me company,” I radioed back.

“Eyes on. Presidential motorcade is arriving at the south entry in five minutes. Bihrelli delegation arriving in seven minutes at the west garden landing pad. Be ready to escort them to the event hall. Jordi can help out with that.”

“Affirm, chief.” I turned back to look at the little Bihrelli. “You stay with me while I escort the Bihrelli big-wigs, and I’ll take you out to dinner this weekend.”

“Is the Kŷmŷ coming here?” they asked.

“Yes, Jordi. The Koimoi of Bihrel is coming here to meet with the President of the Terran Union.” There was no way I could pronounce the weird vowels of the name of office of the leader of Bihrel, so I pronounced it as most humans did. Surprisingly, the President was known for speaking fluent Bihrellian, and her pronunciation was even better than that of the ambassador, who was at the moment waiting to meet her motorcade.

I felt the vibrations of the Bihrelli shuttle landing in the garden, and held the door open at attention. The Koimoi and their retinue walked from the shuttle, their tails held in an appropriate upward curve. Jordi followed their example and got their own tail under control.

I left translation to Jordi and spoke in Terran common. “Right this way, please.”

No sooner had the last of the Bihrelli walked in the door than another shuttle, a rental, zoomed in to hover above the shuttle on the pad. Three waves of half a dozen Drognen soldiers dropped out of the shuttle. Where the Bihrelli were cute, the Drognens were anything but. Looking like a nightmare cross of a toad and a praying mantis, they slowed their descent with wings that were useless for anything other than dropping to the ground with style.

The alarm klaxon sounded through the embassy. I pulled Jordi behind me and began firing at the intruders. “Get them to the hall!” I yelled.

The sound of gunfire was evident from all sides of the embassy. One of the Drognens set off an explosive on the Bihrelli shuttle. There was no way the pilot survived it.

I stepped back to try to get in the door before the embassy went into lockdown, and ran into Jordi, who was still behind me. “Why aren’t you inside?”

“I cannot. The door is locked.” 

“The Koimoi?” I asked.

“Safe inside.”

I pulled out my sidearm and handed it to Jordi. “Know how to—”

“I know how to work your weapon,” they said, ensuring there was a round in the chamber and the safety was off.

“You continue to amaze me.” I swapped out magazines on my assault rifle; thirty-two more rounds and then I was out. “Make every shot count,” I muttered to myself. 

The Drognens were using the fire and smoke from the shuttle to conceal their movements, but there was a clear area directly in front of the recessed doorway where we took cover. To my surprise, Jordi had climbed the vine trellis beside the door and was perched above me, their big eyes, set in such a way as to have a far wider field of view than us, scanning.

Their tail tapped my left shoulder, and I swung my rifle that way to take a shot at the shape moving through the smoke. I heard Jordi take a shot and curse.

With their eyes and my reflexes, we managed to take out seven of the Drognens before my radio crackled to life. “Friendlies coming over the wall into the west garden.”

“Hold!” I radioed back. “Drognen troops under concealment of smoke in the west garden.”

“Roger, Natalia. We won’t fire toward the door. Find cover, incoming.”

I pulled Jordi off the trellis, pushed them against the door, crouched, and shielded their body with mine. My ballistic vest was better than nothing and I expected all hell to break loose. It did.

Three explosions rocked the garden in quick succession, followed by the sound of Terran weapons firing from the wall. It ended as quickly as it began. I tried to stand, but a piercing pain in my leg dropped me to my knees.

Jordi held their tail up to me, the end covered in blood…my dark red blood, not their bright pink. “You are injured,” they said, “do not try to move.”

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“I am uninjured.”

I saw a trail of bright pink blood trickling down their face. “No, you’re not.” I reached for it, but Jordi shrugged.

“I just banged my head when the explosions scared me. It’s nothing.”

“Good, good.” My leg began to throb. I didn’t know if I’d taken a bullet or shrapnel, but either way it was serious. I began to get lightheaded.

“She needs a medic!” they called out.

I was too out of it to make out what was being said on the radio, but I heard the doors unlock and the alarm stopped. The lockdown was over. I crawled to the door and opened it for Jordi. “Get inside while you can.”

The assault team carried me in, and Jordi stayed by my side, their tail wrapped around my wrist. I was glad of it. A medic put an IV in my arm, injected me with something, and I awoke in a bed in the embassy clinic.

Jordi was sleeping in the chair beside the bed, their tail wrapped around my right wrist. A large bandage covered my left thigh. I lifted the edge to see what was under it and saw the remnants of what looked like an extensive surgery.

They woke up while I was examining myself and I felt their tail tighten around my wrist. “I am glad you are alive.”

“Me too. Did they say what it was?”

“A large piece of metal from the shuttle — from when the Drognens blew it up. I thought you knew.”

“I didn’t even notice until I tried to stand up after shielding you.”

“Thank you,” they said, “for saving my life.” They reached an idle hand up to a clear bandage over a couple of stitches above their right eye.

“Just doing my job.”

“Nonsense. Your job is to protect the embassy, the ambassador, and other officials, not a janitor.”

I grabbed their hand. “Well, I’m making it my job from now on. I’d hate to lose you.”

“As a coworker, or….” They trailed off.

“As a friend, at least. We’ll find out more as we go. Sound fair?” I asked.

“Very much so.”

“Where am I taking you to dinner?”

“You are not. I am taking you to my home to cook dinner for you,” they said. When I tried to interrupt they continued on. “I have been practicing cooking Terran food. I hope you like it.”

“Why can’t I take you out to dinner?”

“Because the doctor said you need to rest and stay off that leg for at least a week.” Jordi pulled out their comm pad and showed me a list of instructions and dates. “Until your first physical therapy appointment, which is already scheduled.”

“Wow, Jordi. Where is all this confidence coming from?”

“From you,” they said. “You did not laugh at me or turn me down right away, even though you are stronger, have a more prestigious employment, and are a much better fighter. That, and — I thought for a while I was going to lose you forever.”

“I thought the same,” I said. “So, first date at your place. You do move fast.”

“Second date,” they said. “The first was a little too exciting for me.”

It made me laugh, then I paused. “I wonder if we’re at war with the Drogne Empire now.”

“The Kŷmŷ and your President put out a joint statement about the terrorist attack here. The Emperor saw the wisdom of denouncing the attack by ‘unknown terrorists dressed as Drogne Palace Guards.’”

“You must have good connections around here, to know all that so fast,” I said.

They pointed with their tail at the screen on the wall. “Terran news.”

“Oh, yeah, they do seem to know everything that’s happening, whether they should or not.” I shifted slightly to one side in the bed. “Why don’t you use some of that newfound confidence to lay down here and snuggle with me? I don’t want to be alone right now.”

The little Bihrelli didn’t say anything, but crawled into bed next to me, their tail draped across my waist. I put an arm around them and snorted. “I don’t usually share my bed after the first date, but I’ll make an exception this time.”

“What about after the second?” they asked.

“You’re cheeky when you’re bold, aren’t you?” I patted their tail. “For you, sure. That doesn’t mean we’ll be doing anything right away, I just want to keep you close.”

“You are meant to be resting anyway,” they said.

“Yes, I am, and I feel so much more relaxed knowing you’re here and you’re safe.”

Trunk Stories

The Rise of the Specter

prompt: Write the origin story of a notorious villain.

available at Reedsy

From the outside, my childhood was normal. Of course, “normal” changes over time. The sounds of a paddle or belt coupled with the wails of a child was just “normal,” then. What should have garnered attention was the frequency and severity of my corporal punishment. The sense of the time was, though, that what happens in a neighbor’s house was not one’s business.

That is not to say I blame my parents for who I turned out to be. Just to say that I learned a lot about hiding in my early childhood. With a hot-heated father that looked for any reason to strike a child, I learned to be sneaky. I was almost never punished for my actions, just his flimsy excuses.

The day after graduation, while I was meant to be job hunting, I was hiding out getting high behind the weird government building that was out in the middle of nowhere. That was the day that everything changed.

The field in which the weird building sat had “No Trespassing” signs on twelve-foot chain-link fences with razor wire on top, but they didn’t take into account the largely unexplored lava tubes that ran under most of the area. I found one that led into a stand of juniper trees, away from the guards, on the opposite side of the property from the dirt road that led to the entrance.

Usually, I would just come out, sit under the junipers, and get high. That day, though, I wanted to get a closer look at the building. It looked like a concrete warehouse from the outside, until I got closer and saw the power connection. It wasn’t like the small line that dropped down from the pole to a house, it was the entire high-voltage line that fed right into the building.

Of course, I wanted to find a way in to see what was going on. Only problem was, I was high already, and not thinking too clearly. As I made my way around the building, an alarm sounded, one of those klaxon type alarms that made three loud blasts. I thought I’d been seen and was about to get arrested. Instead, a car shot out from the other side of the building, zooming away from it.

Everything fell to perfect silence. I wondered if I’d scared them off. Funny how my brain misfires when I’m high — which is why I don’t do that anymore. Anyway, that perfect silence was broken by an electrical hum from the power line. My hair stood on end, and I felt waves of energy wash over me. The walls went transparent, and I could see a huge machine pulsing in the center of the otherwise empty building. Then it blew up.

I remember thinking more than once as I watched chunks of concrete and steel pass through me that I was definitely dead this time. When it ended, I was standing knee-deep in the rubble — literally in the rubble. I began walking and my legs just passed through the rubble as if were water. I had gained the ability to phase through solid materials.

The logical choice for me would be to become a world-class thief, right? I mean, it makes sense when you think about it for even a moment. That also makes it the most idiotic thing I could do. The fact that I thought of it while I was stoned out my gourd and traumatized was enough to convince me that anyone who found out I had this power would put it together right away.

Remember, I had an entire childhood spent learning how to be sneaky. Something that could point back at me right away was off the table. Instead, I needed a way to put my new-found power to work without being obvious about it.

Does it mean I never used it to steal? No, of course not. I slipped my hand into the odd ATM here and there and pulled out a wad of bills. The trick is to block the cameras, like I don’t want anyone to see my PIN.

Still, it must seem like a leap from the ability to phase to leader of the largest criminal organization in the world. Not so much, though. One gets to the top of such enterprises by killing their way there. I thought maybe I could do that with practice, and I already had a target in mind, as if that was a surprise.

I had a job at an arcade, a small apartment, and I hadn’t seen the old man for nearly a year when I struck. I had some blood clotting powder in my first aid kit, and a pair of tweezers. That was all I needed, along with a night when he’d had too much to drink and was in a deep sleep in his armchair.

I watched for several nights until the time was right. I pinched a small amount of the powder with the tweezers, phased into the house, and phased the tip of the tweezers into the big vein that stuck out on his neck whenever he yelled or snored. By letting the tweezers open a bit, some of the powder lost contact and was no longer in a phased state. That little bit of powder started a clot that worked its way down to his heart by the time I phased back out of the house.

Natural causes were the official findings of the autopsy. A heavy drinker with a short fuse and signs of high blood pressure threw a clot and had a heart attack? Yeah, no surprise there.

I spent the next three weeks working like normal, waiting for the feelings of guilt or remorse or something to show up. When they didn’t, I knew I’d found my calling.

I moved to the Big Apple to get myself involved in organized crime. I did that by starting a war between the street gangs and their supplier, one of the minor crime families. It wasn’t hard. I followed the street gang runner to where they did their drug pickup. After dark, I phased into the basement beneath the junk store where the mafia kept their stash. I replaced three-quarters of the bricks with bricks of baby powder.

The war started the next day when the gangs accused the mafia of delivering bunk, and the mafia accusing the gangs of ripping them off. While tensions were high, I stopped a lower-rung mafioso and told him that the gangs had their drugs hidden in their hang-out. When they showed up, of course, the drugs were there.

That was enough to get me a meeting with the local boss. He offered me a job as an informant, and I took it. I made sure that anyone who crossed me had a tragic “accident.” The last thing any of them saw was me, phasing through the floor of the car right before they lost control at highway speeds — or through the wall of the elevator right before it dropped all the way to the basement.

No one could pin it to me directly, but it was understood that if I was crossed, terrible things happened. It helped that a lot of the mafia was riddled with superstitions, and I just became another of those things about which to be superstitious.

It took twelve years of hard work to consolidate the Italian families, the Russian mob, and the New York City branches of the Tong, Yakuza, and the two outlaw motorcycle clubs active in the city. That’s not to say there weren’t still disagreements between the groups, but they all knew that the orders flowed from the top, and that was me — or rather, “The Specter” as I had become known.

Twelve years may sound like a long time, but it’s nothing in the grand scheme of things. In the twenty-nine years since, I’ve taken control of mobs, crime families, clubs, gangs, and groups of disaffected youths all over the globe. Once the ball was rolling, it was enough to say, “Join me or die.” The leaders of those organizations that thought they were better off without me disappeared completely.

Of the now seventy-thousand-plus members of the Global Initiative, perhaps a dozen still living have seen my face. That doesn’t mean I don’t still dole out the tragic accident or simple disappearance here and there when I’m crossed.

My instant, reflexive phasing when hit with anything that could injure me has resulted in over thirty instances of me being shot, stabbed, blown up, and other attempts on my life that always end in the same result; the death of the assailant after they’ve given up the names of everyone else involved. I save the slow, painful deaths for those others — often playing “how many sharp things can I phase into your body before you die” — and then phase their corpse deep underground, past the crust into the mantle where it is destroyed.

Of course, saying a thing doesn’t prove it, but the loyalty of my followers, whether they consider me a ghost, a phantom, a demon, or some undead entity, speaks volumes for how I get things done.

So, that’s me, “The Specter.” For my next adventure, I look forward to meeting the super-powered members of the League of Heroes or whatever you’re called these days. I have an offer for you. Join me for unimaginable wealth and luxury or die. Just remember, there’s nothing I can’t phase through. Once, just for curiosity’s sake, I phased through the Earth’s core.

Trust me, joining me is the safer bet. You might be bullet-proof, but that won’t stop me from phasing a softball into your brain. And if that doesn’t kill you outright, while you’re disoriented and trying to heal, we’ll take a trip to the core where I’ll deposit you. Even if you somehow survive the heat and pressure, it’ll be years before you make it to the surface, and I’ll be there to drag you right back down again into your own personal hell. Doesn’t your own private island sound a lot better?

Trunk Stories

XEF

prompt: Set your story during the hottest day of the year.

available at Reedsy

The scant wisps of high cloud offered no hope for relief from the rising sun. The dark red soil had barely finished radiating the heat it had collected the previous day when the first rays of the sun lit the sky.

“Listen up, the word of the day is hydrate.” Captain Inez Isobel filled her canteen from the creek, pushed the button on the side, and waited for the red light on the button to turn green. When it had, she took a swig of the tepid water. “Tastes like shit, but it’s better than dying out here. Speaking of dying out here, every hour we spend reduces the chances for rescue of the crew. Weather check, McCoy.”

“It’s going to be the hottest day yet. Yesterday was already 147 drin. Shit, I can’t do hotter.” Corporal Alex McCoy, barely 150 centimeters tall, turned grey eyes in a pale face rimmed with strawberry blond hair and beard to the tall, dun-skinned woman with dark brown eyes and matching hair buzzed to a few millimeters.

Corporal.” Isobel said the word in Dulxanit.

Aye, Captain. Apologies. I will endure, we will endure, the Xeno Expeditionary Forces will prevail,” he replied in the same language.

She shifted back to English. “McCoy, I know you like to show off your mastery of Dulxan weights and measures, but could you please use human equivalents when it’s just us humans.”

“Yes, ma’am. It was about 43 Celsius — that’s 110 Fahrenheit, Mary-Jane — yesterday, with humidity at 22 percent. It’ll be hotter today,” he said, “but it’s a dry heat?” he added with forced jocularity.

“I know Celsius, Private,” Recruit Mary-Jane Smith shot back.

“Why did you join the Dulxan XEF?” Isobel asked, pronouncing the acronym as “zef.”

McCoy sighed. “Same story as most of us, I guess. We’re not supposed to ask, so forgive me, Cap, if I don’t elaborate.”

Isobel crossed her arms. “I know you’re probably running from a jail sentence or something, what I meant is, why did you join XEF rather than, say, hiding away in any other system outside human space?”

“I—uh—didn’t have that option. It was either the Dulxan Xeno Expeditionary Force, or Dulxan prison, and I couldn’t do another stint.” He turned all his attention on his satellite relay that displayed the weather patterns in real time, along with an overlay of the search grids the team had already combed and those that were left.

Mouths began to open, only to be shut again, as the troops all had questions, but knew better than to ask them.

Sergeant Abel Mahmouddi unfolded his wiry, two-meter frame from where he’d sat. His ebon skin showed no sign of age, although his close-cropped, tightly curled black hair had spots of grey at the temples. “XEFs, fill your canteens and be ready to move out, three minutes. McCoy, keep your eyes on our satellite, Smith on point. Private Doe, what’s our comm situation?”

Private Jane Doe gave a thumbs-up. “We’re five-by-five with command, still no fix on the transponder.”

As they trekked kilometer after slow kilometer, the sun rose, a baleful orange that made their camouflage pattern look washed out and grey. McCoy stayed close to Isobel and Mahmouddi, marking each area they searched as they went.

“Hey, Sarge,” he said, “I saw how everyone looked when I said Dulxan prison.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” Mahmouddi said. “You’d have to fuck up pretty major to end up in Dulxan prison. And did you imply that you’d already done a stint?”

“Tell you what, Sarge. You or Cap tell me why you’re here, and I’ll tell you my story.”

Isobel spoke up. “That’s easy. You’ve already noticed I’m not using one of the ‘hundred names’, but my real name. That’s because I’m not running away from anything.”

“Not hard to believe, Cap,” he said. “I can’t imagine you being in trouble with the law anywhere.”

“I was in the Marines,” she said, “for the black sky Navy. I joined for adventure and travel. Instead, I spent my time on stations and guarding Ambassadors. I joined XEF for the adventure. I saw more action my first year in than I did in the six I spent as a Marine.”

Mahmouddi laughed. “I’m using my real name, too, but not because I’m not running away. I can never return to human space. First-degree murder doesn’t have a statute of limitations. I knew what I was getting into and so did my daughter. Those bastards won’t hurt her — or anybody — ever again, though.”

“Shit. Well, I guess it’s my turn. I, um, had a fling with Eviets, a Dulxan girl—”

“Wait,” Isobel said, “a hairy, snaggletoothed, stubby-legged, Dulxan? Like, with the extra bits down there and all?”

 “Yeah, Cap. Just like that. She was so sweet, though. I couldn’t help but see past all that.”

Mahmouddi’s eyes narrowed. “Was she underage? Is that why?”

“No, no, she…uh…used me…as a money mule. I didn’t know. She’d ask me to do her a favor and hand me a stack of credits with a filled-out deposit slip. Lots of different banks, but I figured it was normal for an interstellar business consultant. She travelled a lot for business, made lots of money, but still found time to keep me happy.”

McCoy marked their location on his display and continued. “It’s just that her ‘consulting’ business was money laundering for pirates and drug cartels. They arrested me while I was making one of the deposits and locked me up. I told them everything I knew, but they didn’t believe me. Eviets was in the wind. They said not even a human would get suckered in by someone as ugly as her, and I was in on it and in it for the money.

“That was the first term, for seven mita — about 2 years — and then they caught her, and she dumped it all on me. I knew I was fucked when I recognized the judge at the second trial as one of her regular customers. Now she’s free and I’m here.”

Mahmouddi chuckled. “You were with a Dulxan woman — an ugly one at that. Who was top?”

McCoy shook his head and sighed. “See, this is why I didn’t want to talk about it.”

“You’re saying she was,” Mahmouddi said. “I see.”

“Would it matter what I said?” he asked.

“Not particularly,” Isobel answered, “as I couldn’t care less. I’m more concerned with our mission. But your history with a snaggletoothed fur-dwarf is safe with me.”

“For future reference, you might just claim the money laundering and skip the rest of the story,” Mahmouddi said.

A sharp whistle from Doe caught their attention. “I’ve got a transponder signal, but it’s weak. North-by-Northeast, probably ten or so kilometers.”

“Round ’em up for a pause,” Isobel said to Mahmouddi.

Aye, Captain.” He raised his open hand over his head and circled it, giving the signal to assemble. Once the entire squadron was there, he said, “Drink up. We’ve got a signal and we’re diverting off the search grid. Ten minutes.”

“McCoy,” Isobel said, “weather report.”

“It’s currently 39 Celsius, and we’re expecting a high of 47,” he said. “For Mary-Jane that’s—”

“102 now, high of 117-sh” she said.

“Close enough. Humidity is dropping as the temperature rises, but we can expect 19 percent.”

“I said, drink up!” Mahmouddi yelled. “We’re going to push on through the heat before it cooks our Dulxan friends. Let’s remind ’em why they have an all-human unit in the XEF!” He switched to Dulxanit and called, “I will endure.”

The squadron answered back in Dulxanit with, “We will endure, the Xeno Expeditionary Forces will prevail.”

The squadron covered the distance in just under two hours. The Dulxan light freighter was wedged against the side of a cliff, the landing gear sheared off in the dense soil, the emergency ablative heat shield all but gone from the high-speed entry to the thick atmosphere.

There were no tree-like plants here to hide the ship. Isobel looked at the open plain and the clear sky above. “McCoy, why didn’t the satellite pick this up?”

McCoy showed her the view from the satellite. “Something in the rocks here is messing with the imaging. It’s all just a blur.”

“Doe, call command with our location. Tell them to send extraction and a medical team at once,” she yelled.

“Trying, Cap, but I can’t reach command. Something’s messing with the signal.”

Mahmouddi and the others were looking for a way into the ship, but the main door was wedged against the mountainside. Smith clambered up the rock face to get on top of the ship. “There’s an access here on top!” she called out.

Isobel looked at the Mahmouddi. “Sergeant, take two more and get into that ship. Be ready with medical requirements. And get me some comms.”

Aye, Captain.” He turned to Doe. “Do you think you could get through from up there?” he asked, pointing at the top of the cliff.

“Maybe, probably. We didn’t bring any climbing gear, though.”

Smith had already clambered down. “I’ve done years of free climbing,” she said. “Give me the radio, and I’ll try to call from up top.”

Mahmouddi nodded. “Make it happen, Recruit. Doe, hand over the comms to Smith and come with me. Corporal Jones, you’re with me, too.”

Two of the squadron ran up to him.

“Shit, sorry, I forgot you got promoted last week. Corporal John Jones, you’re with me and Doe, Corporal Sally Jones, stay with the rest of the squadron and set up a protective perimeter. Corporal McCoy, keep an eye on the display for anything that might be coming our way.”

Aye, Sergeant,” they responded in Dulxanit.

While Mahmouddi led his team into the ship, and Smith climbed the cliff face, McCoy kept watch on the satellite display. “Ma’am,” he asked, “what do you think a Dulxan freighter is doing all the way out here in Thaazi space?”

“I’m sure it’s above my paygrade,” she said, “not to mention yours.”

“Is this planet even inhabited?” he asked.

“Don’t know. It’s not on the public charts, but obviously the Dulxan know it’s here, and I would guess the Thaazi do too.”

Smith waved from the top of the cliff and gave a thumbs-up. Doe popped her head up from the ship and made the hand signal for medevac, followed by a raised hand with four fingers. Smith copied the movements and held a fist in front of her face to say she was relaying the info on comms.

“Here comes the parade,” McCoy said, pointing at his display. Two ships were marked in green on the satellite image, heading toward them.

“Give them a landing marker,” Isobel said. She whistled loud enough for Smith to hear from the top of the cliff and gave the signal to assemble.

When the ships landed, Dulxans in bulky environmental suits to keep them cool rushed out to the freighter. They cut through the side and carried the four injured and overheated crew out of the ship. The XEF squadron loaded onto the second ship as the last of the suited-up Dulxans left the freighter. The air in the extraction ship was a pleasant 19 degrees Celsius.

No sooner had they closed up the ship than the freighter exploded. McCoy showed Isobel and Mahmouddi his display. Where the image had been blurred and glitched, it was now clear.

She nodded. “It wasn’t the rocks.”

“And that was no freighter,” Mahmouddi said.

“Who cares?” McCoy asked. “I’m just going to enjoy this cool air for a while.”

He wasn’t alone. The XEF squadron fell silent as fatigue and the relief from the heat overtook them.

Trunk Stories

Nondescript

prompt: Write a story about an unsung hero.

available at Reedsy

Elijah was the sort of person that could disappear in a “crowd” of three. There was nothing about his looks that stood out. Medium height, build, hair color, skin tone, and immediate impression. He was both an “everyman” and no-one in particular. That suited him just fine, though.

He checked the balance of his savings account, what was left over from his mother’s life insurance after paying her debts. He stepped out of the shotgun shack he’d inherited from his grandparents by way of his mother. A quick scan of the small, gravel plot showed him no weeds on his tiny property.

A trip to town, he thought, was the plan for the day. There was something that drove him, compelled him, to help others. Elijah didn’t feel like himself without it. The fact that those he helped couldn’t recognize him after was fine. He didn’t do it for praise, just to feel — if only for a moment — normal.

He parked his second-hand, beige Toyota in the middle of the grocery store lot. A woman with a full cart, including a toddler and an infant in a convertible car seat, walked out of the store to her SUV parked close to the doors. She wrangled the children into the car, then unloaded the groceries.

Elijah got out of his car, noting the distance to the doors, the cart corral, and the woman’s children in her car. He waved a hand over his head, “You can just leave that there and I’ll take it,” he called out.

The look of relief on her face was all he needed to see. She gave a harried smile and got into her SUV and pulled away. Elijah retrieved the cart and returned it to the stack inside the door. He hadn’t planned on shopping — or anything else for that matter — but a cold drink sounded good.

A bottle of decaffeinated iced tea in hand, he stood in line at the cash register. The man in front of him was growing agitated with the cashier and began to berate her. As his tirade increased, Elijah saw him reach behind his back to pull a pistol.

Time slowed for Elijah, allowing him to toss his drink on the shelf and grab the man’s wrist before he could draw. With the man surprised by the unexpected grab, he froze.

Elijah leaned forward, his arm around the man’s waist, and whispered in his ear, “I know you’re having a bad day, but it doesn’t have to end like this. Please, for the sake of everyone who loves you, don’t do it. The young lady checking your groceries isn’t who you’re really mad at. Look at her, she’s frightened and crying, and why? No reason.”

He stepped back and picked up his drink from the shelf. The man in front of him stood for a moment, then his shoulders dropped. His hand, still empty, fell to his side and he stared down at nothing. Tears pooled in his eyes and began to fall down his cheeks.

His voice barely above a whisper, he said, “I’m sorry, it’s not you, you don’t deserve this. I don’t know what to do, I don’t know….”

Elijah handed the man a calling card for a crisis phone line. “It’ll work out. These people can help.”

As he walked back to his car, he saw the man sitting on the sidewalk near the store, talking on his phone, tears streaming down his face. The people on the phone were good, Elijah knew that. They had helped him when his mother passed.

He got into his car and pulled the pistol he’d lifted from the man’s holster. He ejected the magazine, pulled the slide back to eject the round in the chamber and let it stay locked open. He put the round into the magazine and set the pistol on the passenger seat. His next stop was obvious; the police station to turn in a found weapon.

Part of him felt bad for taking the man’s pistol, but the other part was concerned that he might carry through with the next encounter. Of course, the possibility that he might harm himself was there, too, and Elijah wasn’t going to let that happen.

He’d been honest with the officer about how he ended up in possession of the pistol and the officer led him to an interrogation room and told him to wait, as they might be charging him with felony theft. After he’d waited for an hour, he stepped out of the room and asked the officer watching the rooms if he was still needed. She seemed to be surprised to see anyone there, looked at her clipboard, and told him that he was free to go.

Next to the police station was a used bookstore, and he went in to browse. While he looked over the shelves of used paperbacks, the officer that had taken his statement and told him to wait in interrogation walked in. He browsed the shelves next to Elijah with a slight nod and no hint of recognition.

Elijah found a series of paperback fantasy novels by a dead author he’d never heard of and picked them up. The entire series was there, so no danger of getting invested and having to wait for the next. He loaded the books into his trunk and was about to get in when he saw a runaway stroller.

Time slowed down as he dodged through the crossing traffic. He reached a point past the intersection, in front of the oncoming stroller and braced himself. Straddled wide so the wheels wouldn’t hit his legs, he grabbed the sides of the stroller and shifted his weight to his right foot, bringing it to a stop in a large arc.

He pushed the stroller out of the street to the sidewalk and looked inside. Expecting a baby, he was surprised to see a small dog with a pink bow on its head. The dog seemed happy to see him, licking his hand and wiggling under his pets.

A few others gathered around to see what was going on. The elderly woman toddling down the hill was beside herself. “My baby! My baby!”

Elijah handed control of the stroller to her. “Safe and sound.”

“Thank you so much!” She knelt in front of the stroller and began baby-talking the dog. The crowd, seeing it was a dog, began to clear. “Was my baby scared? Was that a scary, scary ride? I know, right? My poor baby Posie. Mama’s here, and you’re okay now. We’ll get you some num-nums from the doggie bakery. What a big day.”

Elijah had stepped back and turned to go when the woman stopped him. “Yes?” he asked.

“Did you see the young man that saved my baby? I wanted to thank him.”

Elijah smiled and shrugged. “Sorry,” he said, as he walked back to his car. It was better that he didn’t have to deal with her — or anyone at all, really. He was truly unremarkable, instantly forgettable, and that suited him just fine.

Trunk Stories

Campaign

prompt: Write a story with a big twist.

available at Reedsy

“That smug bastard’s done it again.” Penelope made a fist and the small gem in the wall went dark, taking the wall-sized image of the dwarf’s press conference coverage with it. She banged her warm brown fist on the table, her blonde-tipped, brown hair falling in waves around her face as she dropped her forehead to fist, hiding her hazel eyes. “He just laid out the entire transportation plan we just finalized last night.”

“We can fix this.” The elf with charcoal-grey skin, bright violet eyes, and long, straight, snow-white hair pulled into a severe braid took a step toward the desk. “We should go to the press, back door, ‘unnamed inside source’, let them know our campaign has a leak, and Ironstrike is taking our policies public before we can.”

“Really, Agatha? You’re my campaign manager, and I thought you were my friend. That will make me look weak and incompetent, and whiny to boot. I may not have your experience, but I know that’s not how the game is played. It’s a dirty game, I get that — but you — find the leak!”

“Yes, Ms. Gonzales,” Agatha said with a slight bow.

“I’m sorry I snapped. Please, let’s just continue to be Aggie and Pen. I don’t know what I’d do in this town without you.” Penelope raised her head to give Agatha an apologetic smile.

Agatha stepped around the desk and put an arm around Penelope’s shoulders.“You’ll always be little Pen.”

Penelope leaned her head against Agatha’s shoulder. It brought back memories of childhood, when Agatha was her teacher, substitute parent, and frequent partner in crime, sneaking in forbidden sweets for her. “Why does everything have to change?”

“That’s just the way the universe works,” the elf said, petting Penelope’s hair. “Besides, if nothing changed, you wouldn’t be the first human to get this close to nomination for Premier, would you?”

“We have good ideas, at least. If not, Ironstrike wouldn’t be rolling them out as his own.” Penelope chuckled. “He’s been in the game for what, five, six decades? He certainly knows how to work the media.”

“But,” Agatha said, “he wouldn’t know a good policy or decision if it bit him on the ass. Deva Singh, his manager, has to be involved. Still, if he does win the nomination, he would be a fool not to choose you for VP.”

Penelope sat up and straightened her back. “Find out who’s been talking to the Ironstrike campaign and uncover all their communications. I don’t care if it’s a speech writer winking at one of his interns, anything that ties any member of my campaign to his, dig up everything.”

“We won’t have any legal standing to—”

“Doesn’t matter. Get it done. I know you have technical and magical contacts that skirt the edges of legality. Use them if you have to. We have to find the mole.”

“I’ll hire a PI. That way, any possibly less-than-legal actions they take won’t blow back on you. I’ll make sure whoever I hire has complete access to all my communications for the last year and inform them they are to report directly to you.”

“Agatha, come on. I know it isn’t you.”

“But I have more communication with the Ironstrike campaign than anyone else around here.” She crossed her arms. “It’s only fair.”

Penelope nodded. “Fine. What’s on the agenda?”

“Final hearing with the Parliamentary vetting board at eleven, then you’re free until the fundraiser at the Met Gallery, eighteen-hundred.” Agatha pursed her lips. “I can’t join you for the hearing, I think I’ll reach out to Deva, take her to lunch, see if I can get some information from her about who’s been talking. I’ll record our conversation for the PI, too.”

“Thanks.” Penelope stood, moved her hand in a small gesture that made the gem in the wall pulse once before a section of the wall became a mirror. “I should get myself squared away before the hearing.”

Penelope’s phone rang and she answered as Agatha left her office. “Good morning, Ms. Underhill. … Sure, Janey. … Uh-huh … right … thank you. That seriously calms my nerves. See you at eleven.”


Deva Singh’s phone rang. The number was unlisted, but she answered with, “What do you have for me?”

The deep voice on the other end, warped with some sort of magitech said, “Word is that the Gonzales hearing is a formality, the vetting committee has already decided she’s cleared. Her campaign manager floated the possibility of Vice Premier under Ironstrike, and she didn’t turn it down.”

Before Deva could respond the other party disconnected the call. Her tail twitched, and her horns itched. She looked in the mirror at her deep red skin, jet-black hair, and red eyes in black sclera. She wondered how she ended up working in politics. It was far outside what she thought she’d be doing when she got her PhD in Social Work.

Her office door opened, and a red-headed dwarf wearing a bespoke suit stepped in. “What is it, lass? Wondering again how you ended up in Capitol City?” He had lines around his brown eyes, and shots of grey at his temples. His beard was in a four-plait braid with a green ribbon run through it.

“Morning, Hank. Something like that.” She sighed. “Our secret benefactor called again.”

“What’s the word?”

“Vetting is a done deal, and Agatha Blackstone floated the idea of the VP to Gonzales. She didn’t turn it down.”

“She has great ideas, but not the political capital to get it done.” He smoothed his beard. “As soon as she drops her candidacy, I’m offering her the position.”

Deva’s phone rang again, and she answered on speaker. “This is Singh, you’re on speaker.”

“Hey, Deva, Agatha. Are you free for lunch? I want to pick your brain on something.”

“Sure. Orcish at Mama Magthurg’s at twelve?”

“Spicy noodles sounds good. See you there. My treat.”

Deva disconnected. “She wants to know who the mole is.”

“Any luck on that front?” the dwarf asked.

“Nothing yet.” She turned off the mirror and turned to look down at the dwarf from her two meter-vantage. “Does using her plans to flesh out your own not feel dirty to you?”

“No … yeah … a little. But that’s how the game is played.” He straightened his suit that didn’t need it, and said, “Keep looking. If we find the mole before they do, we’ll tell her. She doesn’t need that sort of disloyalty in her camp.”

“And you acting on that disloyalty? What’s that?”

“Politics, lass. Pure politics.” He checked the time. “I’m sitting in on Ms. Gonzales’ vetting hearing, so I better go.”

Deva nodded. “Later, Hank.”


Agatha and Deva sat in the back of Mama Magthurg’s, enjoying their spicy noodles. Agatha looked across the booth at the demon across from her. “You know what I’m going to ask.”

“I know,” Deva said. “We hired a PI, but she’s run into a dead-end. None of the calls are long enough to trace with tech or magic.”

“But they’re coming straight to you?” Agatha asked.

“Yeah. And my phone is tapped in  order to trap him or her.”

“Him or her?”

“The voice is distorted.”

“I just got off the phone with a PI myself. We’re probably going to tap everyone’s communications.” Agatha frowned. “I doubt it’ll help, though. They’re probably using a burner phone.”

“Do you think Ms. Gonzales has a chance at the nomination?” the demon asked.

“Not really. I’m just involved in her campaign because I’ve watched her grow up, and I know the kind of person she is.” Agatha’s smile was sad. “She wants to help people, really help them, and that doesn’t translate well to political clout.”

Deva cleared her throat. “This isn’t a promise or anything of the sort, but Hank is making noises about offering her the Vice Premier role. She’d be able to do a lot of good there and gain the political clout to carry her further.”

“As if she’d be young enough to run as Premier after Ironstrike serves three full terms.” Agatha shook her head. “She’s already fifty, and in twenty-one years she won’t be taken seriously as a candidate.”

Deva shrugged. “Anyway, I thought I’d put it out there, so you aren’t blindsided when Hank calls.”

Agatha chuckled. “I told her this morning that he’d do well to have her as his VP choice.”

“Wait, this morning?” Deva leaned forward. “Who else was there?”

“Just Pen and myself.”

Deva looked at Agatha in shock. “Her office must be bugged. The mystery caller told me about it just before you called.”

“Shit. I’ll send the PI over to scour her office now. Maybe the bug will tell us who the mole is.” Agatha dropped a couple large bills on the table and left in a hurry, making a call on her phone as she went.

No sooner had Agatha disappeared around the corner than Deva’s phone rang. The mystery caller again. “Make your move tomorrow morning. The human’s going to highlight wand control at her fundraiser tonight, which will push her right out of the running.” The caller hung up before Deva could say anything.


The fundraiser was a bust. Penelope laid out the only policy that Ironstrike hadn’t stolen from her, wand control. She explained in detail how wands beyond cantrip power would be regulated in the same way guns were, in order to keep them out of the same hands that they wanted to keep guns from.

It was hot-button topic, and not something any politician hoping for election should broach. She knew it could backfire, and it did. Still, she played the role well until the event ended. She sat on a table and sighed. “That could’ve gone better.”

Agatha didn’t have an answer for her. She’d advised against bringing it up until after election. “I don’t know what to tell you, Pen.”

“I do. Throw in the towel, Aggie. We’re done. I don’t have the backing to stay in the race.” Penelope lay back on the table and laughed. “Now, I can relax. I might even sleep in until six or seven tomorrow.”

“Deva said that your office might be bugged, not that it matters much now.” Agatha sat on the table next to Penelope and stroked her hair. “I sent the PI to your office to find the bug. Maybe that’ll tell us who the mole is … was.”

“You don’t have to,” Penelope said. “I already know.”

Agatha stiffened beside her. “What?”

“I’m not stupid, Aggie.”

“What do you mean?”

Penelope sat up. “It was stupid idea, anyway. A human mayor of a predominantly human, orc, and halfling middle-sized city running for Premier? Never happen in a million years.”

“But—,” Agatha sputtered, “I’m not—”

“Shh, I’m the one telling the story now. It doesn’t help if that human has some more liberal views on social matters than the centerline of the party. I’m just happy our policies have gained the kind of traction they have with Ironstrike’s campaign, however ill-gotten they may be.”

When Penelope was silent for nearly a minute, Agatha asked, “But … who’s the mole?”

“Hmm?”

Agatha stared at Penelope, who raised an eyebrow. “You?”

Penelope nodded.

“You were so convincing that you were angry Ironstrike was stealing your plans.”

“I was angry,” she said, “but not because of that. I was angry that he could spin those as his plans and everyone gobbled it up, but nothing I ever said in twenty years in office, or testifying in front of Parliament, ever got anyone’s attention.”

“They don’t know how smart you are, Pen. That’s on them.” Agatha patted her on the shoulder.

Penelope stood and stretched. “My work here is done.”

“Not so fast,” Agatha said. The look on her face reminded Penelope of her childhood when Agatha was her tutor.

“What, ma’am?”

“You’ll no doubt be hearing from Ironstrike. Deva told me that it wasn’t a promise, but Hank was ‘making noises’ about you as VP pick. He doesn’t make those decisions on his own. It was Deva’s way of letting me know you were about to be tapped.”

“I guess I could do that,” Penelope said, “after I sleep in for one day at least.”

“But what about Premier? If he does three terms, you’ll be—”

“I know how old I’ll be. Aggie, let me tell you a little secret. My only goal in running in the primaries was to get the party to focus on what matters to the constituents and get out of the political navel gazing they’ve fallen into in the past three decades.

“I don’t have the political weight to get the party talking about things like improving transportation infrastructure or expanding healthcare access. Hank does. I knew those issues would strike a chord in the party and beyond, and get voters fired up. I was right. And Hank has the media skills to make it count.”

Trunk Stories

One Way

prompt: Write a story that includes the line, “Is nobody going to say it?”.

available at Reedsy

The mood in the room had been smothered to the point that if were to drop any lower, it would wrap around into manic chaos. Thirty-one red markers on the holographic display blinked and drew attention to themselves as they orbited the gas giant in the system.

“If they complete the gate, the frontier worlds are lost. They have to be stopped, now but … the nearest carrier strike group is the twelfth, and they won’t get here in time.” He looked at his reflection in the darkened screen of his terminal. Where he’d been a young captain only a few months earlier, he was now a commodore, and had aged at least ten years. Lines formed at the corners of his deep brown eyes, a few grey hairs showed at his temples, obvious in the otherwise jet-black hair. Dark circles gathered under his eyes, adding unwanted shadow to his warm brown skin.

“Commodore Singh, all due respect, sir, everything after ‘but’ is horseshit.” The woman who spoke looked out of place, wearing a track suit and trainers among a room full of dress uniforms and suits. Dull blonde hair was pulled back into a ponytail, showing a sun-darkened, beige face with dark freckles, and grey eyes. “The twelfth isn’t the closest or fastest resource.”

“Who are you?” he asked.

She stood and snapped to attention. “Major Brennan, sir, 48th SBS, Marines. Apologies for the state of my dress, but I was shuttled here directly from the gym on the Dublin.”

He nodded and she sat back down. “Major,” he said, “we may need to utilize the Dublin and Donegal to evacuate civilians. I’d lay good money on an Eire-class fast attack hunter against any two alien ships from anywhere. Still, there’s no way two fast-attack ships can take on a squid battle group.”

“We don’t have to take out the whole group, sir, just the flagship. Our intelligence says that without communication with their higher-ups, the squids are unable to organize and take coordinated action.”

“That’s all fine and well, I’m sure.” Governor Haight wore a rumpled, blue suit that set off her deep brown skin, her Afro uncharacteristically askew. Her pale brown eyes showed the weight of expectation. “How do we do that?”

Singh sighed. He gave the major a knowing look and set his jaw.

Brennan took control of the holograph. “Madame Governor, there’s no way for a fast-attack ship to fight through the battle group to the flagship, which is why we have to use stealth.” She entered a command that showed the class of each enemy ship, the flagship marked in purple. It was well within the sphere of other ships.

“Looking at it like this is misleading,” Brennan said, “as the space between each of those ships is a little over a kilometer. I’m suggesting we launch five, two-person BBs — that’s breaching and boarding torpedoes — with the goal of inserting a four-person and six-person team. It’s an hour and forty minutes from launch to attachment if we launch under cover of a patrol maneuver by the Dublin, staying just outside of the squid’s weapons range.” The display showed the Dublin in green moving toward the alien battle group, then turning a slow arc to return to their colony world. Behind the Dublin, five small, green lights continued on toward the alien ships.

She changed the display to show the layout of the alien flagship. “We attach two here,” she made a highlight on the display, “at the comms, and the other three here,” she made another highlight, “between engines and weapons, right near the escape pods.”

As she explained, the green markers representing the SBS squad members moved through the ship. “The first team cuts all communication. This cripples the rest of the battle group. Then they join forces with the second team here, at the main engine room, after the second team has disabled the escape pods. Once the engines are disabled, the full squad will go deck by deck, blowing or disabling every airlock, after which we detonate the BBs, exposing the entire ship to vacuum.”

The governor cleared her throat. “Don’t they breathe methane? Won’t the whole thing blow up, and you with it?”

“Their ship-board atmosphere is pure methane, no oxygen, so fire’s not a concern, unless we pump the ship full of an oxidizer, like the fluorine missiles. We don’t want to destroy it, though, we want to capture it.”

“We just pulled you here from the gym. How did you come up with this plan?” the governor asked.

Brennan smiled. “We gamed this out ages ago. We’ve just been waiting for an opportunity to capture a squid flagship.”

“How much oxygen do the BBs hold?” Singh asked. “Is it still just one hour, or have there been improvements?”

The major smirked. “One hour, sir. The upgraded versions aren’t due to be deployed to the fast attack ships for at least another two years.”

“With two hours of oxygen in your armor, that doesn’t leave a lot of time,” he said.

“Aye, sir. But we’ll get it done.”

“Madame Governor,” he asked, “what’s your decision?”

“What will you do once you detonate the boarding torpedoes?” the governor asked.

“If some of the other ships will move in closer to assist, we’ll expose the reactor to make it too radioactive for them to approach. If they don’t, we’ll sit tight until the twelfth gets here and they can capture the ship for intel.”

Haight looked between the major and the commodore. “The fleet won’t be here for a day and a half. Is nobody going to say it? It’s — you can’t — you’ll—”

Brennan looked the governor in the eye. “It doesn’t need to be said, Madame Governor.”

“Volunteers?” the commodore asked.

“I have too many. The entire squadron volunteered. We’ll draw names out of a hat, except for Lacey and Birkram. Lacey’s got a kid on the way, and Birkram has a two-year-old.” Brennan looked at the governor. “Madame Governor, do we have the green light?”

“What are the chances of success?”

“We’ll get it done, Madame Governor. Like our motto says, ‘By strength and guile.’”

“It feels wrong to throw away the lives of ten marines,” Haight said. “Is there no other way? Commodore?”

“Intel says they’ll finish the gate in the next ten to sixteen hours. After that, we have to admit defeat. They can bring thirty battle groups through in as many minutes.”

“If I may, Madame Governor,” Brennan said, “you aren’t throwing away ten marines. Ten marines are willing to pay the price to protect our borders from the squids, and considering the alternative, it’s a bargain.”

Haight took a deep breath. “Major,” she said, her voice cracking, “you have the green light.” Tears fell from her eyes, and she slumped in her chair.

The major stood and saluted. The commodore and governor both rose and returned her salute.

“God speed,” Singh said.

Haight looked like she was searching for words but not finding any. Brennan nodded at her. “Don’t worry, Madame Governor, we’ll make you proud. We knew when we gamed it out it might be a one-way trip.”