Trunk Stories

Lucky Night

prompt: Write about a plan that goes wrong, for the better.

available at Reedsy

Months of planning, investigation, and surveillance — much of it skirting on the thin edges of the law — were about to pay off. Miranda had him in her sights, and she was going to put him down for good.

That’s not to say she was planning to kill him but putting him behind bars was just as good. She’d followed the progress of the last shipment through customs and knew that it would be her best chance to catch him with the goods.

She knew the pattern by now. The shipment would clear customs, get loaded on a rental truck, be driven to a warehouse on the east side where it was unloaded, and the truck would be returned.

Later in the evening, a delivery van would leave the warehouse with the goods and be driven here, an abandoned factory in the crumbling industrial district north of the city. Once it made it to the factory, he would be alone in guarding it while the van drove away.

In the small hours of the morning, a crew would arrive and process and package the goods. By first light, the crew, the goods, and the man she was following would be gone. She hadn’t figured out how they got it out of the factory, since no other vehicles would arrive or leave, yet the entire vanload would be gone once they left.

Miranda checked her phone; the van had entered thirty minutes earlier, it should be leaving soon. As if on cue, the overhead door opened, and the van drove out. Only her target was left in there now.

She waited for the overhead door to close before moving in closer. The last time she’d been in the factory, she’d left one of the side windows unlatched. She may have played a little loose with the rules up to this point, but she was going to do this next part by the book.

She called dispatch on her phone. “Detective Leffler, badge KN379. Send backup to 11475 Umbra, building 9. Movement in abandoned factory, lights on main floor. I’m going in to make sure no one gets themselves injured.”

“One moment, Sergeant, putting the call on the radio now.”

“Holding.”

Miranda moved to the window and crouched below it, waiting for the permission she needed to go in.

“Detective Leffler, units on their way. Desk Sergeant wants you to wait at the gate for the units.”

“Is that a request or an order?” she asked.

“The exact words were, ‘Tell her to wait outside the gate and meet the units there.’”

“Sounds like an ask, not an order. Advise the units I’m going in.”

With that, she ended the call and checked the window. It was still unlatched. She opened the window and shimmied through to the dusty office. A shiver of adrenaline shot through her, and she took a deep breath to calm her nerves. With a slow and intentional hand, she unholstered her weapon.

She opened the office door, doing her best to keep the hinges from squeaking. Opened wide enough for her to pass through, she listened for any sounds of movement. The main floor of the factory, where the overhead door was, seemed to be the only source of sounds.

It sounded like he might be on a call. Either that, or he wasn’t alone. Either way, she was going to see this through. Backup should be arriving in less than ten minutes, enough time for her to make the collar or determine whether to hang back.

The cargo sat in a neat stack of boxes in the middle of the main floor. She’d been right, he was on the phone. He was still too far away for her to make out what he was saying, but his back was turned.

Miranda crept to the stack of boxes and climbed onto the lowest tier to get a better vantage. She pointed her pistol at him. “Police! Don’t mo—”

She was interrupted by a sharp blow on her shoulder, making her drop the weapon. She’d only turned partway around toward her attacker when she was struck in the chin, snapping her head to the side and knocking her out cold.

Miranda woke, feeling refreshed for the briefest moment…at least until the pain of the blow and the resulting headache rushed in. She reached for her head on instinct and found herself in the process of being locked up with her own cuffs. The partially crushed boxes beneath her were uncomfortable, as was the large man that sat on top of her binding her hands.

He stood and pulled her off the boxes. He was well over six feet tall, and, she guessed, around two-sixty if not more. Close-cropped blonde hair above brown eyes and sun-darkened skin the color of a burnt peach. He had the crooked nose and small, short scars of a long-time bare-knuckle brawler.

She’d thought initially that she’d been hit with a club or baton, but realized it was his calloused knuckles that had done the deed. She looked for her pistol but didn’t see it anywhere.

His large, work-hardened hands began pawing at her. It was almost an effective pat-down, but he only found her empty holster, badge clip, and wallet. He pulled her pistol out of the back of his waistband.

“Stay here and stay quiet, or you get dead,” he said. “Nod your head if you understand.”

Miranda nodded, her head thudding with movement.

“She’s a cop,” he said to the man she’d been after. He walked over to the other man and handed him the badge and wallet.

Since he hadn’t found her phone, she reached for the pocket where it should be. It was empty. The boxes she’d been laid out on…her phone was in there somewhere.

The other man motioned her over. “Come over here,” he said, “I don’t want to yell.”

She walked over, staying just out of reach. He was shorter than Miranda’s five-foot-seven. The man was thin, with olive-tinged skin, thick, salt-and-pepper hair, groomed eyebrows, and light brown eyes that divulged nothing of what was going on behind them.

“Detective Miranda Leffler…212 West Highland, apartment 19…or is it a condo?”

She looked at him without answering.

“Well, no matter. I know who you are, and I suppose you know who I am?”

When no response was forthcoming, he looked at the larger man. “How hard did you hit her? Did you scramble her brains?”

The larger man brandished her pistol again. “When Mr. Stevens asks, you answer. Got it?”

The smaller man let out an exasperated sigh. “Danny, how many times do I have to tell you…no names!”

“Sorry, boss.”

“Not that it matters.” He stepped into Miranda’s personal space. Her initial thought was that she could take him, even cuffed as she was. That thought was just as soon replaced with the knowledge that Danny would shoot her before she got started.

“Ask away,” she said. “You’re holding all the cards.”

“Better. I know you called for backup. They’re at the gate now, waiting for my orders.”

She tried and failed to hide her surprise. Of course, he would have police in his pocket. If she made it out of this, she’d see who was on duty the nights that the product moved through the factory.

“Don’t be surprised, dear. I’m a businessman, and as such, I pay for security, just like any other.” He opened one of the damaged boxes and pulled out a plush toy. “Amazing that something so simple can make so much money. Thirteen cents each, plus another three for the ear tags, and I can wholesale them at six bucks a pop. Of course, the markup from there to the toy store, to the consumer is highway robbery.”

“You know you can’t get away with it forever,” she said. “This spot and your warehouse where you keep the van are burned.”

“You might think so,” he said, “but I’m going to tell you what’s about to happen. You’re going to march out there and start shooting at your fellow officers. While they’re busy trying to talk you down, you’re going to shoot yourself in the head. Tragic, really.”

“I see,” she said. Her mind raced, trying to find a way out of it. “You’re going to kill a cop over some counterfeit toys? I guess life in prison sounds better to you than ten years.”

“It’s not just some counterfeit toys. These are the same toys and tags as the originals, from the same factory. There’s over a million dollars in these boxes…wholesale. Danny, make it happen. And when the crew gets here, get the orders handled and on the train; the car number’s on the dry-erase board by the door. I’ll be busy.”

Danny nodded and prodded Miranda with the pistol. “This way.” He led her to the back of the factory and out a formerly locked corridor which led outside. To her left she saw another overhead door that led to a broken loading platform by the train tracks where a freight train rested.

He closed the door behind them and put the pistol in his pocket. “Sorry I hit you so hard, but I needed to sell it. Don’t worry, nobody’s dying tonight. Special Agent Daniel Abrams, FBI.” He uncuffed her and gave her back her cuffs, holster, pistol and badge. Then he removed her phone from a pocket inside his light jacket and turned it to speaker. “Did you get all that?” he asked.

“We did,” the voice on the other end answered. “Takedown team is moving in now to arrest the officers on the scene.”

“Good deal. The crew shows up in forty minutes with the shipping labels. I’ll be going back in after I make the expected noise. Don’t know where Stevens is going, but I sent you the number to his new burner phone so you can track him that way.”

“What’s the go signal?”

“When I start cursing in Spanish. How long until the gate is clear?”

“Waiting for confirm—never mind, there it is. Gate is clear, the officers are in custody, and ours are ready to drive the vehicles out.”

“Let ’em know we’re going to make some noise, then I’ll carry Detective Leffler out for them to get her out of the line of fire. Have to make it look good for the camera.”

“Affirmative. State Patrol SWAT is there and waiting for you.”

Danny looked at Miranda. “Would you mind firing off three or four shots in quick succession, then a pause, then one more.”

Miranda unholstered her weapon and pointed it at a pile of gravel nearby. “This will be the first time I’ve fired a weapon in the line of duty.”

“At least it’s not a real life and death situation.”

She fired off the shots, surprised at how long the sound echoed through the rundown buildings around them. After she holstered her weapon, Danny told her to take her jacket off. “This is the hard part,” he said, “you need to play dead.”

He draped the jacket over her head and shoulders. “I’m going to haul you out there in a fireman’s carry, then drop you into a trunk for the camera out front. Whatever you do, don’t move.”

After what seemed like an interminable trip bouncing over his shoulder, she felt herself being set into a trunk and heard the lid closing over her. Without seeing who was there, she worried that it might be a setup between Danny and the cops. After all, she hadn’t seen a badge; then again, if was undercover he wouldn’t be carrying one.

She had removed the jacket and was still considering the options when the car came to a stop. The fact that he left her weapon in her holster made her feel a little better about her chances.

Before she could decide whether to draw it in the cramped space of the trunk, the lid popped up and an officer in a State Patrol SWAT uniform offered a hand to her. “Come on out, Leffler. Jace Mitchell. Pleased to meet you.”

Miranda accepted his help and climbed out of the trunk. Aside from two ambulances and their attendant EMTs, she and the SWAT officer were alone. “Jace, Miranda. Where’s the rest of the team?”

“Heading back to assist in the big arrest. FBI took the officers to Federal booking in the county lockup, along with the desk sergeant.”

“What about Stevens?”

Jace shrugged. “He’s being tracked, and his burner phone is being monitored. The longer he thinks everything is okay, the better. He’s only a small part of this.”

“A small part? He’s bringing in half a million counterfeit Adopt-a-Plush toys every month, and he’s a small part?!” Miranda’s head throbbed and her chin felt like it was swollen. “Tell that to my niece who was heartbroken when the Adopt-a-Plush her mother bought at the mall was a fake and she couldn’t get an adoption certificate online.”

“He’s a small part, in that he’s just one supplier of counterfeit goods to American Joy Distributors, LLC. Tonight, all their operations in eleven ports and fourteen cities are being closed down. The big fish, though, is whoever is handling the bulk sales to legitimate vendors and trafficking the shipping crew. Thirty-one people whose passports are being withheld while they get shipped around from job to job.

“Tonight, it’s toys; last night it was shoes and purses.” Jace caught her gaze. “I’ve been working with these FBI guys on this for two years. State Patrol thought we might have enough to go after one of your guys and try to flip him, but your sergeant just handed them all to us on a platter.”

Miranda deflated. “I just wanted to stop a counterfeiter.”

“In a way, you did…or you helped, anyway. If you hadn’t called it in, we wouldn’t have known for sure who in your department is in their pocket. It’s your lucky night. Stevens promoted Dan to be his righthand man last week after his previous lieutenant was picked up on unrelated charges. If we hadn’t already been in place to move in, or if anyone else in Stevens’ organization had been there, you’d probably be dead.”

“Yeah, lucky,” she said. She touched her chin, eliciting a wince.

“Have the EMTs check you out,” Jace said. “You got your noggin rocked, and Abrams looks like he packs a mean punch.”

“That he does, Jace…that he does.”

Trunk Stories

The Bitter Ghosts of Our Past

prompt: Write a story where someone sees the shadow of someone standing behind them.

available at Reedsy

Fleet Mother Andkura sat before a desk in her ready room. The air above the desk was littered with holograms of reports from systems throughout the Gathering. Her four large, compound eyes took in the chaos. The thin, wiry muscles of her arms writhed under blue-grey skin as her clawed hands opened and closed. Her whip-like tail swished side-to-side in agitation.

One notification popped up among the holos, demanding attention in harsh, blue light. With a wave of her hand, the reports closed, leaving only the notification. She motioned to the floating icon. “Fleet Mother Andkura.”

The person on the other end was not what she expected. A human, making a direct call to someone of her rank and stature. The real-time holo meant that they were in Krinn space, close by.

“Greetings, Fleet Mother Andkura. I have important information for you about your home world.”

“I doubt it. I just left Gathering Prime and have had recent communication with them.”

“I’m talking about your real home world, cradle world of the Krinn,” he said. “I should introduce myself. Dr. Allen Stund, director of the data archeology project on Krialla.”

“You have my attention,” she said. “What have you found?”

“This is something you need to see in person, not over a non-secured link. And we have some sensitive…artifacts that need to be returned to your people.”

“Where do you expect that to happen?”

“The Terran Science Vessel Turing is approaching your location. We would prefer to meet here.” He raised his hands to shoulder height, palms forward. “Please feel free to scan the ship carefully. We have no weapons beyond small meteorite defenses. You are welcome to bring an armed escort for your protection if you feel you need it, although I can guarantee you don’t.”

Andkura pulled up information on her holo display and linked in the bridge. “We have confirmed your location. You are ordered to heave-to for a boarding inspection. Helm, maneuver for contact and boarding. I’ll be leading the boarding party.”

“Affirmed, Mother,” came the reply from the bridge.

“I look forward to meeting you,” Allen said, offering a slight bow before turning off his comms.

Andkura stood at the shuttle door, waiting for the airlock seal to be complete. Her mantle flowed to just above her feet, decked out in designs of platinum thread and the collection of awards she’d earned in her long career. She was flanked either side by armed troops in simple grey combat uniforms, their weapons slung in a casual yet easy-to-access position.

When the airlock doors opened, Allen greeted her. “Welcome aboard, Fleet Mother Andkura.”

“You are not of the Gathering Fleet, you can just call me Andkura, Dr. Stund.”

“Certainly, Andkura…and please, Allen is fine.”

“Thank you, Allen. May I send the inspection team to make sure your vessel is within treaty?”

“Of course,” he said. “There is one area that is off-limits due to privacy concerns, but that is where we will be showing you the…artifacts. Your guards are welcome to accompany us if you trust them with the most sensitive of matters.”

“If I didn’t, they wouldn’t be my guards,” she said. She turned toward the shuttle. “Standard compliance inspection. I’ll be personally inspecting the sensitive area.”

The inspection team, each armed with a light sidearm, filed out of the shuttle in teams of two to spread through the ship. Andkura noticed tension in Allen, but not the sort that smugglers or pirates displayed. Rather than concern for the inspection teams, he ignored them entirely and was focused solely on her.

“If you would, then, Allen.”

He nodded and turned to go. “Follow me, please.”

They walked through the ship, past crew members busy about their business who seemed more interested in the armed guards than a Fleet Mother in full regalia. Their path led them to a storage area in the back of the massive lab where the humans did their data archaeology.

The lab was unguarded, but the storage door was flanked by two women in security uniforms, armed with stun batons. They nodded as the group approached. “Director,” one of them said, “I see we’re getting rid of the ghosts. This is your authorized guest?”

“Guests,” he corrected.

“Orders are, no weapons in the artifacts storage,” the other guard said, nodding toward the weapons Andkura’s guards wore.

“I’m certain that the guards of the Fleet Mother are not going to discharge their weapons near the artifacts,” Allen said.

“As you say, Allen,” Andkura assured. The guards nodded and put their hands behind their backs.

“See, all good.”

“If anything happens, it’s on you,” the first guard said, pointing at the surveillance camera overhead. With that clarified, she pressed her palm against the door activator and the room opened. “I don’t really care, as long as we get the ghosts off the ship.”

The scene in front of Andkura and the other Krinn left them shocked. Four desiccated Krinn corpses, still dressed in the finery of office. One wore the mantle of Great Mother of Krialla. The others wore the mantles of the Grand Council.

“What is the meaning of this?” Andkura asked.

“How much do you know about the devastation of Krialla?” Allen asked.

“I know what remains of our history. The Gathering fought against the Scattering. When the Scattering forces realized they were losing, they bathed the planet in radiation, destroying it. The Great Mother and her entire council were killed in a direct blast on the palace.

“In memory of the beloved Great Mother Nirdik, the Gathering continued on in the colonies, eventually naming one of them Gathering Prime and setting up the new government there.”

“That’s a nice story,” Allen said. “The unfortunate fact is, it’s entirely false.”

Andkura leant over the corpse wearing the mantle of the Great Mother. “There’s no way that’s the real Great Mother.”

“Genetic analysis says it is,” Allen said. “We found them in a hollowed-out asteroid bunker. We found the bunker thanks to a beacon identifier we recovered from what was left of the safe under the Great Mother’s palace.

“We didn’t know what to expect on the asteroid, but that’s what we found…along with some personal journals. It seems Great Mother Nirdik left control of the government to her daughters and nieces in the colonies, albeit with forged documentation so they couldn’t be linked back to her.”

He pointed to a Krinn terminal set up at a desk in the room. “That’s got direct access to all the data we’ve been able to recover from Krialla so far. Everything related to the Great Mother, the Grand Council, and the devastation are indexed for you.”

She sat at the terminal and worked with the six-hundred-year-old technology. It took her just a few minutes to acquaint herself with how it worked, and she dove in.

Andkura had no idea how long she’d been reading document after document, watching holo after holo, learning the history she’d never heard. She’d just opened another document when a shadow fell across the screen. The sudden realization that someone was standing behind her made her start.

The guards had their weapons at the ready, gone from relaxed and bored to ready to fight in a moment. They just as fast retuned to a relaxed state when Andkura waved them off.

“Allen, this is…,” she faltered, “too…. Why did you bring this to me rather than directly to Gathering Prime; to the Council?”

“What have you learned?”

“There was no Scattering. Nirdik and her council were losing favor and began to label any who spoke against them as traitors; part of a plot called the Scattering. It started small, but the more that spoke out, the more the Scattering became the enemy, the more support she and the council had.

“That she would…the whole planet…just to save the party…I—I can’t.”

“Thinking about that,” Allen asked, “why would you think I would bring it to a Fleet Mother rather than the council?”

Andkura’s tail whipped, hitting the floor with a sharp snap. “The current Great Mother is not very popular, and suddenly we’re patrolling for rebels in the colonies.”

“George Santayana, a human philosopher said, ‘Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.’ I, for one, take those words to heart.”

“I’m not sure yet what to do with the bodies,” Andkura said, “but we’ll take them back with us to get the ghosts off your ship. Why you believe in such nonsense is beyond me, but I will honor it by removing them from your presence.”

Allen laughed. “No, that has nothing to do with it. The ‘ghosts’ we’re talking about are the recordings and documents we’ve recovered. They tell a horrific tale of those in power holding on in any way they could.

“Attempting to erase your history was a shrewd move on Nirdik’s part; not to mention the dissidents that died in the nuclear storm.”

Allen put a hand on Andkura’s shoulder. “The reason humans place so much importance on our history…our real history, warts and all, is to remember what not to do again.”

“And those memories are the ghosts you speak of?”

“Yes. They will haunt us as long as we remember, but they will rise again in existence as soon as we forget.”

Allen made a sweeping gesture toward the room. “These are your ghosts, Krinn ghosts; do with them as you will.

“I recommend listening to them, sharing their stories far and wide, and proclaiming ‘Never Again.’”

Andkura stood in silence for a moment. “I will spend the time it takes to return these to our ship to think on the best course of action. Perhaps an appeal can be made to the council.”

Allen smiled, but there was sadness in his eyes. “A human leader, hundreds of years ago, trying to prevent a war said, ‘The mystic chords of memory, stretching from every battle-field, and patriot grave, to every living heart and hearthstone, all over this broad land, will yet swell the chorus of the Union, when again touched, as surely they will be, by the better angels of our nature.’

“Forty-one rotations of the planet later, that war started. Brother against brother, a single nation divided against itself. I believe all sapient creatures have ‘better angels of our nature,’ but they fall silent unless we can acknowledge and accept the bitter ghosts of our past.”

Trunk Stories

Let’s Have an Adventure

prompt: Make a train station an important part of your story.

available at Reedsy

Jackson wasn’t sure this was the right one, at first. He’d followed the directions, but this run-down station couldn’t be it. He looked to the crumbling ceiling and saw hints of a faded mural. The outlines of an eagle caught his eye. No, it’s a hawk, he reminded himself.

This was the station he was looking for. The same one where he’d waited impatiently as a young boy to meet his grandfather. His mother had taken time to explain the “eagle” he had excitedly pointed out was, in fact, a hawk. Although they could hear the trains from their farm, that had been his first visit to the station.

He remembered the first words his grandfather had spoken to him. “You look like an adventurous young man. Let’s have an adventure!”

The rest of the mural filled itself out in his mind’s eye. Mountains to the west and north, hills to the south, and over it all a blue sky with few clouds. Soaring in the sky was the hawk, hunting.

Compared to the landscape outside the station, the mural was far more interesting. The station sat at the edge of what once was a small farming town. Outside that lay flat fields of corn and wheat as far as the eye could see, dotted with grain silos, bisected by the poorly maintained, two-lane state highway that ran alongside the train tracks, from horizon to horizon.

When he’d been a small boy, though, the interstate went in. It didn’t pass any closer than sixty miles to the town. The farms and homes around the new interstate were torn down and paved over, turned into mini-malls, shopping centers, gas stations, motels, restaurants, and car dealerships.

The small city there grew around the service industries, and step by gradual step, the small farming town where Jackson had first met his grandfather died. The general store, one-room schoolhouse, gas station, diner, and the few houses in town were now boarded up, silent…decaying.

The freight trains still ran twice a day and picked up grain at the loading yard a mile away, however, there used to also be twelve passenger trains every day. At least until the interstate took the riders away.

Now the passenger train came once a day, and there was no one working at the station. A single kiosk, marked with scrawled graffiti stood next to the passenger platform, where one could buy a ticket to any other stop on the line — assuming the train was going their direction that day — without any human interaction.

The train came to a stop at the platform, and as the doors opened, Jackson caught the conductor’s announcement, mid-sentence. “…a ten-minute stop. Be sure to have your ticket in hand if you exit the train in order to re-board. Smoking areas are marked at the far ends of the platform. If you are not on board at the last call, you will have to wait two days for the next west-bound train.”

A dozen bedraggled riders filed off and went to the nearest smoking area, many lighting up before they got there. Jackson watched the train, waiting. He knew it was a stupid, but it was the eightieth anniversary of meeting his grandfather, and his own eighty-sixth birthday; possibly his last.

Grandfather had moved to the farm, helping his mother out after his father’s death. The hours and hard work took on a toll on him, though. In the six years he’d lived with them, Jackson had watched him age twenty. Grandfather went to bed one evening when Jackson was twelve and never woke up.

After that, his mother sold the farm to one of the big agri-businesses and moved them out west. He thought he could still see their twin grain silos in the distance, across the tracks. Jackson banished that thought. They might be in the same location, but those were likely replaced at some point in the intervening time.

Whenever he looked at the smoking passengers, he caught some of them watching him. I probably look like a doddering old fool out here, he thought.

He wondered how things would be different if he’d had children. He could have grandchildren, great-grandchildren, by now. Larry had children, he thought, and a wife. As soon as his children were grown, though, Larry had left his wife for Jackson, turning their affair from a very private one to a semi-public one. Larry’s children had disowned him then, not showing their faces again until his funeral.

They’d never married, even when the law was passed. Jackson had asked, but Larry didn’t want the trappings of marriage, when they were already listed as next-of-kin everywhere that mattered.

Jackson smiled as remembered the funeral. Larry would’ve loved it; white lilies, blue morning glories, a few true words from friends and made-up nonsense from family, but still more bittersweet than sorrowful. It was followed by a wake — minus the estranged family — with punk music, dancing, Larry’s favorite cheap beer, and laughter.

He wasn’t sure what he was looking for in this run-down station, but after the passengers boarded and the train left, he knew he wouldn’t find it. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to leave, at least not yet.

Back inside the station, Jackson sat on the least broken bench and looked at what was left of the mural. He closed his eyes, letting his boyhood memories fill it in for him again.

A freight train passed by outside, headed east from the loading station. The steady clack-clack of the wheels increased in tempo by small measures; the mile-long train slowly gaining speed. The sound soothed him, reminding him of his childhood on the farm.

A smile formed on his face as he lay on the bench and let the sound wash over him. For a moment, he was six again, excited almost as much to see the train as to meet his grandfather and enthralled with the mural overhead.

The colors grew bright and bold, the hawk seemed ready to swoop down at a moment’s notice, and the air around him filled with the sounds of a busy station. He felt a presence standing above him and sat up.

“Grandfather!” He was just as Jackson remembered him, except younger.

“It’s good to see you, Jackson, and the man you’ve become.”

“Jackie?” The voice caught him off-guard.

He turned to see Larry, a young man again, like when they’d first met and Larry had been living a lie. “Larry, I missed you.”

“We missed you too, you know,” his grandfather said, extending a hand. “Come on, it’s time.”

Jackson took his grandfather’s hand and stood, hugging his grandfather and then Larry. He and Larry held hands, interlacing their fingers.

Jackson turned back to look at the bench and saw himself there, grey and unmoving, a slight smile still evident on his face. He turned back to Larry and his grandfather and said, “Let’s have an adventure.”

Trunk Stories

The Volunteer Agent

prompt: Write a story about a character who can’t tell what’s real and what’s not.

available at Reedsy

It is imperative that I get stronger. I cannot rely on others to save me forever. That is why I train in every available moment; to be able to save myself without the serum.

No one said that delving into the Otherworld would be easy or safe. That didn’t stop me from volunteering. I thought I was trained enough for the mission, at least until I first encountered them — the inhabitants of the Otherworld.

Many are grotesque, warped, hideous, and yet…a few seem normal, almost beautiful. It was one of the beautiful ones that laid me low the first time.

The training that came before the mission was mental…emotional…not the physical training I so desperately need now. I can still feel the halo device being lowered onto my shaved head. I pushed aside my fear with the memory that I volunteered for this.

There was a moment of brief disorientation as the training loaded into my brain, then I was there. I learned how to move through the Otherworld, how to explore, discover, collect evidence and keys to their defeat. I learned how to keep myself grounded in the moment, hide my thoughts from them, and remain undetected.

Events after the training are broken and disjointed in my memory. The crossing over and back again takes a toll. I do, however, remember the trip in the grey ship; days and weeks passed as I was transported to the gate.

I have my quarters here in the gate station. I’m not the only agent exploring the Otherworld. There are many more here. We do not wear the uniforms of the helpers and support crew. As I spend every waking moment here training, I opt for sweats and soft sneakers.

As I said, I need to get stronger…physically. The Otherworld is dangerous…often violently so.

The support crew sometimes come through the gate, just long enough to inject a serum that gives us the strength to jump back through the gate. It’s never pleasant, but so far, it’s the only thing between me and death.

My goal with constant training is to be able to complete my missions without the serum. While the support crew are friendly enough, they seem to be incapable of normal conversation.

The one that injected me this time, and jumped back through the gate with me, gave me a sad smile. I can’t recall what he said, but it made no sense.

“I need to get these keys to the director,” I said.

He said, “Now you can rest. I’ll check on you later, during my rounds.”

“No,” I said, “I can’t rest right now, the Director needs these keys.”

He nodded. “Yes, that’s good. I’ll see you later.”

Knowing from the sound of the door clicking that I was currently confined to my quarters, I began working out again. Tired or not, I had to get stronger.

There seems to be an unwritten rule that agents don’t talk about their missions. I figured that out my first day when I realized that none of the agents would talk about the Otherworld or the gate. Whatever helps them cope, I guess.

For a station so far away from everything, the Director has gone out of her way to make the agents comfortable. The ever-changing scenery displayed on the false windows looks real — sometimes too real — and the food is better than one would expect for the pre-packaged plastic ration trays; segmented into compartments for each different item. I often wondered how they could heat some compartments and chill others. Technology is wonderful.

Depending on an agent’s current state, they either received their plastic tray of food in the dining hall with the others, or in their quarters. Since I’m currently relegated to in-quarters rest, my tray of food was brought to my room.

Today’s breakfast was buckwheat pancakes. That means my weekly debrief with the Director happens later this afternoon. I guess that’s why the support guy didn’t seem to be in a hurry to get the keys to her.

That’s another issue with these missions; the loss of time. Every trip to the Otherworld and back leaves me unsure of what day or time it is. It seems as though time passes differently there than here. Then again, the serum distorts the passage of time as well.

I had barely eaten half of my breakfast, after what I thought was a short workout, and one of the support crew came to take me to my weekly debrief. No matter, I had nine keys from my last mission for the Director. I held out the hope that she would recognize my good work and offer me some time off…maybe back on Earth.

The artificial window in her office showed a grey drizzle. They really thought of everything when they built this station. The Director wore her heavy, black, plastic-framed glasses, and a tan sweater beneath her white uniform coat. Like many people with advanced degrees, she preferred to be referred to as Doctor or Doc rather than Director.

“Afternoon, Doctor.”

“Good afternoon.” Her desk was more cluttered than usual. She read the reports that the support crew were always writing. “Why don’t you tell me how your week has been?”

“Last mission, I captured nine keys,” I said. “I have them here for you.” I checked the pocket of my sweats, but the keys were gone. Maybe the other pocket? Not there either. A panic began to build.

“That’s not important,” she said.

“They must have fallen out when I was working out,” I told her. “I’m trying to get stronger. I have to get stronger.”

“Why do you feel you need to be stronger?”

“So I have the strength to make it back from…,” I stopped myself. Even the Director didn’t like it when the Otherworld was mentioned directly. “I need to be able to get back on my own power, without endangering the crew.”

The Director nodded and continued to take notes. “What kind of workouts are you doing?”

“Push-ups, sit-ups, lunges, squats; whatever I can do without equipment.”

“Do you feel it’s helping?” she asked.

“I think it is,” I said. “I almost made it back on my own last time.” I shook my head. “The…shot…was way too strong.”

She made another note. “Do you think you’d ever want to go back to what you used to do?”

“What do you mean?”

“Before you came here. Do you remember what your job was?”

“I designed a mind-brain interface,” I said, “but it was silly. It was just for a game, not like the serious training I got for this.”

“Do you remember the name of the game?”

I thought hard. It wasn’t coming; it just wasn’t important enough to have stuck. I shook my head.

The Director stood a box with a fancy graphic on her desk. “The Otherworld,” it said. “Does this look familiar?”

It did, but it didn’t at the same time. Like once before, the inhabitants of the Otherworld were trying to take my mind; make me an ineffective agent.

I looked at the Director. Something in her hesitant smile was wrong. I wasn’t in the Director’s office, I’d been sucked back into the Otherworld! That’s why the keys were missing; they were never here to begin with.

I stood and readied myself to fight. “I may not be as strong as I want to be, but I’m strong enough to take you down and get the Director back.”

The next hours were a blur. I fought with the Otherworld denizens; the beautiful one that tried to impersonate the Director, and a dozen or more of the warped and hideous creatures. I captured a key and used it on the locked door I found hidden in the side of a temple guarded by the creatures.

I knew I’d freed the Director when she herself injected me with the serum. As I came to, I was in her office, rather than my quarters. The gate had never opened here before.

She had a bruise forming on her cheek. They’d mistreated her. As for me, my ribs hurt, my right hand felt like I’d slammed it into a wall. The Otherworld denizens were tough. Besides that, the arm where the Director had injected the serum was a little sore, but we were overall safe. The clock on the wall showed that only a few minutes had passed. Time worked differently there.

“Director, you’re safe. Thank god.” I thought it was the Director, but I was worried that maybe they’d replaced her again, with a better impersonator.

“It’s Doctor, remember? You’re safe here.”

I smiled. I knew that an impersonator wouldn’t know the passphrase. Two of the support crew were standing by, including the man that had rescued me the time before. “Could the crew help me to my quarters?” I asked. “I’m feeling a little weak and could use some rest.”

“Sure. You get some rest. We’ll talk more tomorrow”

“Sorry I didn’t bring back any keys, but your safety was more important.”

As I was helped to my feet to leave, I noticed that her desk was tidy, and the box the Otherworlder had shown me was nowhere to be found. I will need to be more careful of my surroundings from now on, but I will continue; I volunteered for this.

Trunk Stories

Tiptoe

prompt: Write about someone who has long since quit but decides to go another round for old time’s sake.

available at Reedsy

Hervé had long ago stopped answering the phone as Lieutenant Deschamps, so he was surprised by the greeting of the woman calling.

“Lieutenant? Detective Julia Thierry, working with INTERPOL. I’m calling to let you know that we have new information on the Tiptoe Thief.”

“Really? That doesn’t surprise me. I imagine he made a death-bed confession in a pensioner’s home?”

“No, nothing like that. He’s struck again.”

Hervé thought about it. He’d chased the jewel thief for the last twenty-two years of his forty-year career. During that time, he’d closed hundreds of cases. The so-called “Tiptoe Thief” had, however, continued on a spree in fourteen countries, scoring a hit every month like clockwork, until he fell silent for the last eight years of Hervé’s investigation.

The theory at the time was that he’d had been jailed on some other charge, or died. Hervé thought that perhaps that he’d aged out of the high-risk jewel theft game. A new hit, however, would disprove that idea.

“What was stolen?”

“The Brilliant Set from the Danish Crown Jewels was stolen from the Amalianborg Museum.”

Hervé sighed. “What makes you think it’s our man?”

“The case was cleaned out in the middle of the day, with two guards and four cameras in the gallery. Nobody saw anything. They were there, then they weren’t. Two minutes of footage wiped. That…plus the Corinthian Emerald.”

“What about it?”

“It was left in place of the jewels.”

“A note?”

“There was an SD card under the emerald with a text file. Same kind of taunts.”

“So, either our guy is still alive and active again after twelve years of silence, or he’s trained someone new.” Hervé paused for a moment. “I can’t imagine he’d have passed on the emerald, though. That was the theft that caught our attention and earned his nickname in the press.”

“It’s possible that he finally made a mistake, though,” Julia said.

“What kind of mistake?”

“There was an eyelash in the case. We’re waiting on DNA results.”

“Are you working out of the Lyon headquarters?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll be there in three hours.” Hervé hung up before she could protest and grabbed his coat and keys on his way out the door.

When he arrived and showed his ID he was escorted to Julia’s office. “Good to meet you,” he said, hand out for a shake. He was acutely aware of how grey and stooped he felt next to the young woman in front of him.

“Why are you here?” she asked.

“If you’ll allow it, I’d like to offer my services. Unpaid consultant, if that works for you.”

“I’ll take it.” She led him to the conference room where years of records about the Tiptoe Thief were spread across the large table.

He recognized the map he’d marked with the thief’s movements over the years. A new X on the map marked the museum in Denmark. To the right of the map was a dry erase board with “12 years?” in large, circled, red letters at the top.

Below that, the text file that had been found on the SD card was printed out and taped to the board. Hervé read it, finding nothing in it surprising, until the last lines.

This might be enough to pull Lt. Deschamps out of retirement. He loves to chase me as much I love to be chased. Miss you, Hervé. Sincerely, Tiptoe.

“Why do you think he’d come out of retirement now?” Julia asked.

“I’ve always held that he must be about my age,” Hervé said, “partly because of the sophistication of the targets. That idea was reinforced when his retirement was close to the time I was getting too old for field work. So, assuming he’s closing in on seventy like me, he may be feeling his mortality.

“One last hurrah before he shuffles off the mortal coil.”

“What about you?” Julia looked into Hervé’s tired eyes. “This is more than just closing an old case. Is this your last hurrah?”

“It might well be,” he said. “I’d really like to catch this guy.”

“Why don’t you get a hotel room and get some rest, Lieutenant. I’ll call when we have the DNA results.”

Hervé turned to leave, then stopped. “Where are they holding the Corinthian?” he asked.

“Police evidence lockup in Copenhagen.”

Hervé chuckled. “Tell them to check. I’d bet it’s disappeared. It did the job he wanted; proved his identity. Now, he’ll want it back.”

In the early hours of the next morning, Hervé got the call he’d been waiting for. He’d already showered and dressed, so was on his way out the door as he answered. “What have we got?”

“You were right about the Corinthian. I called right after you left, and after arguing with the desk sergeant, they agreed to check. It was gone, with a note that said, ‘The chase is on,’ and, ‘here’s a present.’ There was a hair folded neatly in the note.”

“The hair?” Hervé asked.

“Is already at their lab to test against the eyelash.”

“Maybe the eyelash wasn’t a mistake.”

Julia sighed. “Yeah, well, how soon can you get here?”

“On my way already. There in ten minutes.”

“You’ll find this…interesting,” she said.

Hervé entered the conference room where Julia was doling out assignments for agents to get in touch with other police agencies. He waited by the door until she’d finished relaying her orders.

“You have the DNA results. Did you find a match?” he asked.

“We did. Hervé, how many children do you have?”

“None.”

“Wrong,” she said. She handed him the report, showing that the eyelash belonged to his daughter.

“I…have a daughter?” He was confused. “But…how?”

“Hervé, when a man and woman like each other a whole lot—”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“So, you never had unprotected sex? Ever?”

“Once. But why wouldn’t I know about it?”

“Sometimes, a woman just wants a baby without dealing with a man.”

“I had a lover that begged for unprotected sex after she had been on the pill for a couple months. The day after we did, she went on a trip to Spain for a few weeks, then sent me a letter saying she was moving back to England.” Hervé frowned. “That can’t be it, though.”

“Why?”

“This wasn’t long enough ago. If her child was Tiptoe, she would have only been ten or eleven for the Corinthian heist.”

Julia was scribbling in her notebook. “What was her name? Are you still in contact with her?”

“Melissa Carter,” he said, “an English woman. We haven’t talked since she broke it off with that letter from Spain.”

“I’ll see what I can find on her. The early thefts were in the UK, and we thought the culprit might be English. I’ll check her travel history.” Julia looked at Hervé. “Do you think it’s possible that Ms. Carter is the original Tiptoe, and her daughter…your daughter…is following in her footsteps?”

“Funny you should use that terminology. Melissa had a congenital defect that required the use of braces and crutches to walk.” Hervé shook his head. “She wouldn’t have been able to access the crime scenes and leave unnoticed.”

“How did you meet?”

“She was studying forensic science at American University in Paris. Part of her program was intern work in our lab. After her graduation, we started seeing each other. That lasted about four months.”

Hervé spent the rest of the day assisting with the phone banking, calling departments in France, and sharing the information they had. He also requested the station in Copenhagen send all their surveillance video from the time the Corinthian arrived until they discovered it missing to the Lyon INTERPOL office.

He was watching the footage for the second time, focusing on the evidence access cage when Julia interrupted him. “It’s getting late,” she said, “you should get some dinner, get some rest. We can pick it up again in the morning.”

He nodded and closed the laptop he’d been using. His eyes were heavy and rather than the invigorated feeling he used to get when hunting a suspect, he felt wrung out, tired.

Rather than deal with the restaurant, Hervé called for room service and ordered a light dinner. He was resting his eyes when the knock on his door came.

He opened the door, and the young woman in the hotel uniform pushing the cart into the room looked familiar…but he knew he’d never seen her before.

“Your dinner, sir.”

He held out a banknote for a tip and she shook her head. “That’s not necessary. I just wanted to see you up close.”

“Do I know you?”

“Kind of, but not really.” She leaned against the door. “You’ve been chasing me a long time. And I think, all I ever wanted was to meet you, and get your attention.”

“You’re the Tiptoe Thief?” he asked.

“I hate that name, but yes. Sandra Carter. Mom didn’t tell me who you were until my tenth birthday.”

She slid down the door and sat on the floor. “She took me to the British Museum for my birthday and told me about the police detective she’d tricked into getting her pregnant. Said she felt bad about it, but not too bad, since she had me.

“She was in a wheelchair by then, and I was pushing her around the museum, thinking about how I could meet my father. She didn’t tell me your name, though.

“When I saw the Corinthian, I thought if I nicked it, the police would catch me, and I’d meet you. Stupid, I know.”

Hervé sat in stunned silence as she told her story.

“What I didn’t expect was how easy it was to lift the case just high enough for my little hands, grab the stone, stuff in the back of Mom’s wheelchair and walk out with it. I guess I kind of got hooked on it.”

“But you were so young.”

“I was,” she said. “Twelve years ago, Mom was diagnosed with bone cancer. I took care of her, considered myself retired…even got an honest job.

“When she passed last year, I went through her things in storage. She had collected every story that ever mentioned you in the papers. As much as she tried to tell me that you were nothing more than a sperm donor, I think she fell for you against her own wishes.”

Hervé had pulled out his cell phone to call Julia but had no service. Sandra pointed at the phone. “Sorry. There won’t be any service in this wing of the hotel for at least another twelve hours…until the batteries die.”

“You have to turn yourself in,” he said. “Now that we know who you are, you won’t be able to run forever.”

“We?” she asked. “I only see you here. You know who I am. Do I think you’ll rat me out? Probably. It was worth it, though, to meet you. I’ve seen pictures from when you were younger, and I’m not surprised Mom picked you.”

“Please, turn yourself in. You can go to the regular police if you want, rather than deal with INTERPOL directly.” Hervé locked eyes with her; they were Melissa’s eyes in shape and color. He could see her in Sandra. “If you turn yourself in, you won’t have to run forever, and I would visit you in prison, get to know you. I wish your mother had told me the truth. I would’ve been a part of your life.”

“I can’t turn myself in, Hervé…Dad. It would make some very dangerous people extremely nervous.” She gave him a sad smile. “This was one last attempt to meet you. After this, I’m retiring for good, and Sandra Carter will disappear from the face of the Earth.

“I won’t be completely gone, though. Now that I have your address from the hotel registry, I’ll send you the occasional postcard to keep in touch.”

She stood and reached for the door, pausing to turn back to Hervé. “Goodbye, Dad. It really was nice to meet you, finally.”

He knew he could go after her, stop her before she could leave the hotel, but something held him back. It was several minutes later that he left the room to find a signal and call Julia, though he didn’t know what he would say.

Trunk Stories

The Minister’s Daughter

prompt: Begin your story with somebody getting (or taking) the blame for something they didn’t do.

available at Reedsy

“You sure you don’t want to change your account, Carter?”

Brianna Carter shook her head and rested her face in her hands. “No.”

“Damn it! Ms. Petrova already told us that it was consensual.”

Brianna looked at the agent with fire in her eyes. “No. She’s just scared and confused. I…forced her.”

“I know you’re lying, Carter. Why?” Special Agent Weaver leaned forward on his elbows, moving into her space. “You’re throwing away your entire career, your pension…and…you’ll be facing some serious jail time.”

“Here, or in the states?”

“You know we’ll try to get you back to the states, but we can’t guarantee it.”

“Doesn’t matter, my story doesn’t change.” Brianna crossed her arms and raised her head. “I met Oksana at a restaurant on Tsentralnaya Prospekt and we had a few drinks. The restaurant was closing, and she invited me to her place for drinks, nothing else.

“Once we got there, I forced her, against her will. She thinks I’m CIA, that’s why she’s telling you it was consensual; she’s scared.”

Weaver sighed. “Look, if you don’t tell me the truth, I can’t help you. The State Department can handle you had an affair with a local. But you’re willing to take the rap for….”

Brianna nodded as silent tears ran down her face. “I’ll stick to that story forever, if I have to.”

Weaver pulled a folder out of the briefcase by his feet and opened it for Briana to see. “This contradicts your story. You’ve been seeing Oksana Petrova for the last nine weeks. She’s been your guest for several overnights, and already cleared by embassy security.

“They’re willing to drop the indecency charge against you, and not turn this into an international incident. But you have to play along.”

Brianna slammed the folder shut. “Why would you bring that here?! You stupid, dickless, shit-for-brains moron!” Brianna broke down in tears. “There’s almost no way they’ll buy it now. Do your penance for bringing that in here.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re going to march out of here, right now, and convince them that I am a sick, perverted rapist, and that Oksana Petrova is a victim. You got that?” Brianna slammed her palm on the table. “Until I’ve got word that Oksana’s been released, I’m not cooperating with you or the State Department.”

“If I convince them Ms. Petrova is a victim, there’s no way they don’t prosecute you here. You’ll ‘disappear’ your first week in prison, in some ‘transfer incident’ and you’ll never be heard from again.”

“Better me than her.”

“She’s facing an indecency charge. It’s a maximum sixty-day sentence for a first offense.” Weaver tucked the folder back in the briefcase and leaned on the table close to her again. “Why would you risk your life?”

“What do you think will happen when the daughter of the Minister for Social Morality goes to prison for indecency? Ivan Petrov has already shown a willingness to sacrifice anybody and everybody for his position. Igor Petrov…does that name ring a bell?”

“His brother,” Weaver said. “You think he was….”

“I know he was murdered. The embassy has video from Petrov’s home. He didn’t go climbing in the mountains and disappear. Ivan gunned him down at the dinner table. That was for a forum post that questioned the Morality Minister’s authority to enact his anti-gay legislation. What do you think he’ll do when he finds out his daughter is in prison for violating it?”

“So, you’re willing to risk a major international incident — not to mention your own life — to save Ms. Petrova?”

“In a hot second.”

“I have to make some calls.” Weaver groaned. “Don’t say anything to the police until I get back to you.”

“Can you promise to get Oksana released today?”

“I’ll do everything in my power.” Weaver stood. “Can you promise to keep your mouth shut?”

“I’ll do everything in my power.” As Weaver reached for the door, Brianna called out, “Wait.”

Weaver turned back toward her.

“Bring your phone here.”

“I can’t let you make a call,” he said.

“I won’t, you will.” Weaver handed her his phone and she entered a number along with instructions in his note app. “If it’s looking like you can’t get Oksana released today, call that number and get her an attorney. She won’t survive in a cell overnight. Her father will see to that.”

It was a long hour until Weaver returned to the interrogation room, during which time a few curious local police had opened the door to look in, then left without saying anything. Weaver came in, an argument in Russian blaring from his phone.

He interrupted the other parties. “This isn’t going anywhere. I’m sorry for taking up your time.” He hung up before anyone on the call could respond.

“What was that about?”

“Ms. Petrova is dual citizen. I thought maybe the Russian embassy could help out. At first, they were willing, until they heard the charge.”

“I could’ve told you that would be a dead end. They don’t have the same laws, but the attitude’s not much different.”

Weaver sat down and leaned close to Brianna. “What would happen if we could get her to Russia?”

“Honestly, I would expect them to extradite her back here immediately.” Brianna grabbed Weaver’s hand. “It’s time to get her a lawyer.”

Weaver nodded and dialed the number she’d put in the note. He sat quiet for a moment, listening, then answered. “Yeah, we could use a good lawyer here at the police station in Kuznezran.

“A US citizen and a local. … That’s right. … She said the hummingbird doesn’t know the words. … Yeah, sure.”

He hung up and looked at Brianna who was staring daggers at him. “In here? Really?”

Weaver sat down and leaned close again, speaking softly. “If I leave the station, I’ve been told I can’t come back. They’re only allowing me here as a courtesy. As in, as long as I keep trying to convince you to agree to their version of the story, I can be here. Otherwise, I’m interfering in their investigation.”

“Shit.” Brianna laid her head on the desk. “This is so fucked up.”

“Why were you doing…that…at her place?”

“We weren’t.” Brianna took his phone and tapped out another message in his notes app. “This is for my family,” she said, “since I may not see them for a while.”

The message, however, read, “Went to O’s to get her papers, apply for asylum at embassy. In O’s less than a minute, police kicked down door, false report.”

Weaver nodded and put his phone away. The two sat quietly until a commotion arose outside the door. “Stay put, I’m going to see what this is about,” Weaver said.

He had no sooner reached for the door than it flew open. A tall, blonde woman in a business suit entered, holding a briefcase in one hand and a bag of Brianna’s belongings, including her shoes, in the other. She tossed the bag to Brianna. “I’m Sasha Makarova, your attorney. Come on, Carter, we’re taking you back to the embassy.”

“Not without Oksana.”

“We have to go, now.”

Brianna stood and stared at the tall woman. “Not. Without. Oksana.”

Sasha narrowed her eyes. “After this, you owe me one.” She stepped out of the open room and motioned over the station chief. After a high-speed exchange in Russian, she flashed a stack of US currency in the briefcase. He nodded and walked away.

“She’s on her way. You two, get ready to go. If your shoes aren’t tied, that’s your problem.”

The station chief appeared outside the door again, leading Oksana, still barefoot, and holding her bag of belongings. Sasha looked at Oksana and nodded. “Put your shoes on, quick.” She stepped out into the hallway with the station chief and masked the exchange of money from the hallway cameras with her bag, leaving it apparent to the trio in the interrogation room.

Oksana slipped her shoes on, and Sasha said, “Let’s go, kids.” She led them to a waiting SUV which sped them to the embassy while Weaver made plans on his phone.

“They took my passports,” Oksana said. “My Kryznian and Russian ones.”

“Won’t be a problem,” Weaver said. “You’ll both be getting on a diplomatic flight out.”

Sasha pulled off her heels and kicked them to the side, then stripped to her underwear and put on jeans, a sweatshirt and a pair of running shoes that had been waiting in the truck. “I hate those things. And those weren’t your passports. That Oksana Petrova is currently on holiday in Spain. This Oksana Petrova happens to be a US citizen. Seeing how her passports were brought back to the Republic of Kryznia by a tourist, she’s soon going to be considered missing.”

“Thanks, Susan…Sasha,” Brianna said, “whatever your name is today.”

“Sasha’s burned after this, and I doubt I can work in Kryznia again. I’ll be flying back with you under my own name.” She looked at Oksana, huddled close to Brianna. “This is the one you’ve been telling me about?”

“Yeah.” Brianna took Oksana’s hand and squeezed it.

“Mom’s gonna be pissed I got to meet her first.”

“No, she’s gonna be pissed you were ready to leave her behind.”

“If I didn’t have enough of a bribe for the station chief, I would’ve had to. Would have dragged you out kicking and screaming.”

“Thank god it didn’t come to that.”

Susan looked at her sister with a raised eyebrow. “This time.” Switching to Russian, she turned to Oksana and asked, “Has Bri told you about the time I had to rescue her from a biker bar in Burbank?”

Brianna slapped Susan on the leg. “Susan, no! No you don’t! And it wasn’t a rescue!”

Susan smirked. “Yes I do and yes it was. We’re almost at the embassy…I’ll tell you on the flight. Bri always passes out after takeoff.”

Brianna growled at her sister while Oksana chuckled. “This,” Oksana said, “is what sisters do, yes?”

Brianna shook her head while Susan beamed and said, “Exactly!”

Trunk Stories

Picking Up a Stray

prompt: Write a story where a local takes a newcomer under their wing. 

available at Reedsy

He had the look in his green eyes; the haunted, startled gaze that saw everything and nothing as threat. Young, away from home for the first time, adrift…completely and utterly alone. The streets are especially dangerous for girls, but almost as much so for tiny boys like him.

He was probably underage, but I knew if I asked, he would say he was eighteen. Hell, it’s gotten to where eighteen-year-olds look like babies to me, so he may have been. More likely, though, is that he was another runaway, and discovering for the first time how bad it could get.

Aside from the traces of a fading black eye, his face was clean; a warm, light gold-red-brown that left his ethnicity an open question. His hair, curly brown, messy and sporting a leaf where he’d probably slept in the park recently needed a wash, as did his clothes. The backpack he wore tightly strapped around him was hardly large enough for a single change of clothes.

“Hey kid,” I said, keeping my voice soft, “you hungry?”

After his initial start at my voice, he looked at me like a puppy that had been teased with a treat without ever getting it. He nodded.

“Get up and follow me, kid,” I said, offering a hand up. He looked at my hand like it was infectious. “It’s just motor oil stains. It’s clean.”

 He took my hand and stood; shorter than me, and barely weighed enough to not blow away in a stiff breeze. “Thank you, ma’am.”

“Oh no, you don’t call me ma’am. I ain’t that old.”

“Yes, ma—okay.”

“What’s your name, kid?”

“Ma—Mark. And I’m not a kid…I’m eighteen.”

I’d thought he was about to Matt or Matthew, but the vowel changed at the last second. If he didn’t want to give me his real name that was his business. “I’m Isabel Hernandez.”

I led “Mark” to a fast-food joint on the way to my place. It sat at the boundary between the ’hood and the start of the gentrified area. He got dirty looks from some of the uptown, office types. One of them, not much older than Mark, walked past us and muttered, “Cougar.”

A sharp retort was at the tip of my tongue until I heard the young man with her say, “More like MILF,” followed by her punching his arm and cursing him out.

For his part, “Mark” moved closer to me as though he expected to be attacked. I asked what he wanted, and doubled the order, except for the soda; I ordered an unsweetened tea for myself.

When we sat at the table, I took the tea and pushed the tray across to him. He tried to set half off for me and I told him, “No, that’s all yours.”

Tears pooled in his eyes, which he was quick to hide by stuffing his face with the burgers and fries. Through it all, his backpack stayed tightly strapped to him.

“Mark,” I said, and he kept on eating. “Mark?”

It took him a moment to realize I was talking to him. “Oh….” He set the fries down.

“Look, I know it’s not your real name, but try to remember what name you gave, okay?”

He couldn’t look me in the eye, staring at the decimated tray of food in front of him. “It’s Manuel,” he said, barely above a whisper.

“Okay, Manuel. Is it alright if I call you Manny?”

He nodded.

“Do you have somewhere to stay tonight?”

He shook his head and allowed his hunger to overcome his guilt as he resumed eating.

“There’s a shelter on—”

“No!” His sudden outburst surprised both of us. “I uh…they stole my stuff.” He pointed at the bruised eye.

“Do you have clothes in the backpack?”

“Just…a book and a…,” he trailed off. “They took my clothes and wallet and my suitcase. When I tried to stop them, they beat me up.”

“Fair enough. When you’re done, we’ll go to my place. You can get a shower, and I have some sweats you can wear while I wash your clothes.”

Once he was cleaned up and dressed in my sweats, I realized just how tiny he was. I ran a load of laundry, mixing some of my clothes with his in my apartment-sized washer-dryer combo.

While the dryer ran, I switched on the TV to watch a movie. Manny sat next to me on the couch.

The movie had just started, and Manny leaned in close and tried to kiss me. “Whoa! What are you doing?”

“I—I thought…I mean…you fed me, you let me stay here, I thought you wanted….” He retreated to the far end of the couch and pulled his knees against his chest. “Sorry. I’ll leave as soon as my clothes are dry.”

“No, you won’t. You’re not in trouble, and I’m not mad at you.” I did my best to keep my voice even and gentle. “I didn’t offer you a place to stay to get something from you, just to help.”

The tears fell from his eyes in silence. I couldn’t tell what he was feeling, beyond maybe embarrassment. Did he feel I rejected him? I didn’t want to scare him back out into the streets; he wouldn’t last much longer out there.

“Manny, really, I’m not mad. Look, you’re good looking for a guy, but I don’t swing that way.” I moved closer and put a hand on his shoulder. “I honestly don’t want anything from you, other than to see you safe.”

That was all it took. He broke down into heaving sobs, and when I pulled him into a hug he grabbed on as if his life depended on it. I got the feeling he hadn’t been shown any attention, much less affection, in a long time.

He eventually cried himself to sleep, and I let him down on the couch and covered him with a blanket. When the dryer finished, I folded his clothes and put them on the coffee table. In his sleep he kept muttering “nanay.”

When I woke, he was dressed and looking nervous, his backpack once again tightly strapped on. “I’m not going to steal your stuff,” I said, “but if you want to wear your backpack all the time, I won’t stop you. I’m making breakfast, it’ll be ready in a few minutes.”

We ate breakfast in silence. Although he’d taken his backpack off, he looked over at it every few minutes. Still, Manny had wolfed down his eggs, bacon, and toast before I’d even finished my eggs.

When he’d finished, he picked up his plate and fork, washed them, placed them in the drying rack, and scrubbed out the pan.

“Thanks, Manny. Appreciate the help.” I got ready to wash my own dishes and he took them from me to do them. “Thanks again.”

I went to my room and made a call to the shelter. I could hear Manny cleaning up in the kitchen. When I stepped back out, he had his backpack strapped tightly on again.

“Thank you, Ms. Hernandez,” he said. “I’ll find somewhere to go.”

“Just a second, Manny. First, I’m Isabel, not Ms. Hernandez. Second, I told you, I want to see you safe. You ain’t safe out there on the streets. Third, I have some shopping to do and could really use your help, if you want to.”

He nodded. “Okay.”

I walked with him to the Goodwill a block away from my apartment and made a beeline for the men’s clothing section. It took a bit of convincing, but he finally agreed to let me buy him some clothes. A suitcase, also from the Goodwill, filled with clothes for him and a couple pairs of sneakers only set me back seventy dollars.

From there, we stopped by the supermarket where I picked up some groceries and told him to pick out some underwear and socks. He didn’t argue this time, though I did have to get after him to pick up more than just one three-pack of each.

On the way out, I made a copy of the apartment key and handed it to him. “You can come and go as you please,” I said. “I trust you not to steal my shit, and I won’t steal yours. I need to go to work, but first, I’m going by the shelter. They say your ID is there, but nothing else.”

The flash of fear in his eyes told me he wasn’t ready to face it. “It’s fine, I’ll pick it up, and see you after work…around five. Oh! Whatever you do, if you see a short, barrel-chested white dude with a blonde bowl-cut, meth mouth, and hairy arms in the building, don’t even look at him, much less talk to him. That’s Rufus…at least that’s what everyone calls him. He’s dangerous when he’s off his meds, which is pretty much always. Although…I haven’t heard him yelling up the stairs in a while.”

His ID gave me his last name, Lim, previous address on the other side of the state, and his age; he was eighteen by four days. Not long enough for the difference between his round-cheeked ID photo and his current state. Not my business, I told myself.

The workday was long; our “shop mouse” didn’t show again. I spent the morning trying to get in touch with him. Finally, his sister called to let me know he was passed out drunk at her place. I let her know that the fifth time was the last, and that he was fired.

I took some deep breaths before I opened the door to the apartment. It wouldn’t do to spook Manny with my mood. The scene in front of me left me floored.

The apartment was spotless. The carpet stains were gone from the front half of the living room, and Manny was on his knees, scrubbing at the carpet in the back. Meanwhile, he was talking to someone in a language that I’d only heard on TV: Tagalog.

As I stepped in, I saw who he was talking to. It was a stuffed, patchwork rabbit. When the door clicked shut behind me, he rushed to stuff the toy into his backpack.

Bringing it up could wait. There was no reason to embarrass him. “Wow, Manny. I don’t think the apartment’s looked this good since I moved in. Hell, before I moved in.”

“My father said, you don’t work, you don’t eat.”

“Sounds a little extreme. Like I said, you don’t have to do anything for me to stay here but thank you.” I dropped my keys on the counter and moved toward my room. “I’m going to shower and then get dinner started. You don’t have to keep scrubbing.”

Manny watched me in the kitchen while I cooked, his eyes only flicking toward his backpack a few times. “If you like,” I said, “I can teach you to cook.”

He choked back tears and nodded.

As we ate dinner, I slid his ID across the table to him. “Almost forgot this,” I said.

“Thank you.” He stared at me, making serious eye contact for the first time. “Are you sad?”

“No…yeah, a little. I had to fire the shop mouse today. He’d rather drink than come to work.” I let out a sigh of resignation. “I really like him, too. He’s a good kid, just has an addiction he needs to deal with.”

“I’m sorry your friend is sick like that. My dad’s sick like that…only, now he’s in prison.”

“How…long ago?”

“Last year. I left because they wanted to put me in foster care.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Your mother?”

“She was different sick. She died when I was eight.” His eyes moved to the backpack and stayed fixed on it.

“So, the book and the…other thing in there…. Those were from your mom?”

He turned back to me and nodded.

“You don’t have to hide them from me, and I’ll never touch them without your permission. Deal?”

“’Kay.” He cleared the table, and we washed up together.

“What’s a shop mouse?” he asked.

“Just a helper. Clean up, put tools away, sometimes give me a hand with heavy stuff.” I stopped drying and looked at him. “How would you like a job, Manny? Hours are regular, Tuesday through Saturday. Pays fifteen bucks an hour.”

“I…uh…you mean that?”

“I mean that.” I put the last of the dishes away and turned to him. “Can you start tomorrow?”

“Don’t I have to fill out an application and stuff?”

“I’ll have Jaylin take care of that. She’s the entire office staff.”

I spent the next few days introducing Manny around the shop and the building, slowly expanding out to the immediate neighborhood. I made it clear that the dealers should know that I was watching over him, and anyone messing with him or selling to him would have to deal with me.

He’d already proven he wasn’t afraid of hard work, and he got right to it in the shop. After the first couple weeks, he began to leave his backpack at the apartment. A week after that he showed me the rabbit and the book. It was a Suess book; well-worn and near to falling apart. Nestled within its pages was a picture of Manny and his parents in happier times. He looked just like his mother.

We found a place on a shelf for the book and the rabbit he called Victoria, where he could always see them. It was the best way I knew to make it clear that as long as he was here, he was home.

In those times he was home and I wasn’t, the little sneak finished scrubbing the carpet in the front room and began on the bedroom. It looked great but made it impossible for me to demand the landlord replace it. I guess the end result was the same either way.

One afternoon, I brought home a GED study guide, and his eyes lit up. I just wanted to give him the option, but he was excited about it, and studied every chance he got. When he passed the test three months later, we held a party in the apartment for the neighbors he’d gotten to know.

Manny prepared all the food, including a cake. He wouldn’t let me lift a hand to help. I noticed that Victoria was secreted away somewhere, not that it surprised me. I was surprised when Rufus showed up with a present for him…and he wasn’t high or yelling at people that weren’t there.

Rufus…Carl, actually…told me how Manny had held the door for him one day and bought him a soda out of the machine in the lobby another. Carl explained that he understood why everyone avoided him, but he was back on his proper meds, clean off everything else for eight months, and was trying to get his life back on track.

“That kid,” Carl said, “is the first person outside of the rooms to see me for more than an angry, psycho, meth-head. We talked for a long time about not letting the world drive you to drugs or booze…like I did…and his dad, apparently.”

“To think,” I said, “not so long ago he was a skinny, scared kid in the alley behind 7-11.”

“Yeah. He told me how you made him feel at home for first time since his mother died.” Carl leaned in closer. “You didn’t hear it from me, but I think he’s got a little crush on you. He kept talking about loving going to work to, quote, ‘see her in her tight pants’ and how was learning to cook so he could make dinner for her.”

I chuckled. “That wouldn’t be me. I wear loose, greasy coveralls. Sounds like he’s talking about Jaylin, the office girl. She’s closer to his age, at least.”

“Oh, okay. Sorry if I overstepped.”

Manny interrupted. “If you two are done whispering, food’s ready. Come, eat. Oh, Isabel, there’s some paperwork on the counter for you, if you think it’s all right.”

The paperwork was proof of employment and income for an enrollment application to a local automotive repair trade school. I signed off on the paperwork and smiled at him, his face now filled out, his body beginning to build some muscle where he’d been emaciated before. I don’t know what happens for him next, but I know I’ll be there for him, whatever.

Trunk Stories

Uncivilized Apes

prompt: Write a story in which someone says “You’ll never be content.”

available at Reedsy

Ambassador Innuluk 2327 had an annoying, sloshing, unease behind all four of its eyestalks. It hoped the translator was wrong. No sapient being could be as obtuse and stubborn as this stiff-jointed, endoskeletal biped that called itself “Carlie” or maybe “Chief of Engineering” or “Human.”

It looked at the creature in front of it. Taller than the ambassador currently shaped its body, binary sensory organs placed in an arrangement that suggested a predator. Brown skin showed on the head and manipulators that extended past the creature’s protective garments, except where a thick covering of black curly fibers topped its head.

“Let’s back up a little here,” it said. “What is your function? Your title?”

“Chief of Engineering.” Carlie pointed to the tag on her coveralls.

“And your species?”

“Homo Sapiens. Or just call us humans.”

“You are in charge of all engineers of humans?” All four of the ambassador’s eyestalks swiveled to face the human in surprise. It flattened its body some, becoming even shorter. “I am not worthy to negotiate with you. I will send for ambassador number one.”

“No, I’m only in charge of the engineers here…on this project.”

The ambassador’s body shifted again, becoming more cylindrical, and taller than the human. “Then you are certainly not of a high enough status to negotiate with an ambassador of my rank, engineer human.”

“I know, right?” Carlie sighed. “I tried telling them that, but I’m the most senior here, and we can’t get a political type out here in less than two months. So, I got stuck with it. And call me Carlie, please. You said your name is Innuluk? Can I call you Innuluk?”

“What is the meaning of ‘carlie’? The translator is not understanding it.”

“That’s my name.” Carlie pointed at herself. “Me. My name is Carlie, my species is human, and my job is engineer.”

“I think I understand. But calling me ‘Innuluk’ would be like me calling you ‘Human.’ You may refer to me as ‘Ambassador’. In the Conglomerate, we are identified by our employment, species, and rank.”

“I don’t guess it’s any weirder than talking to an amorphous blob with eyestalks and tentacles.” Carlie tilted her head. “Are you male, female, both, neither…something else entirely?”

“Ah, sexual differentiation. This is known among other species in the Conglomerate, but Innuluk are not. And since we are on the indelicate matter of reproduction, we can bud off and an offspring will grow, but stronger offspring are created when two or more buds are combined. And you are…?”

“I’m a female. Since you know of other species, I’m sure you know what that means. Now, Ambassador, with that out of the way, what brings you here besides the obvious?”

“What is the obvious?”

“You came to welcome us to the neighborhood, first contact, all that sort of thing. Probably want us to join your Conglomerate or something, after ensuring that we aren’t just a bunch of backwards, uncivilized apes, right?”

“No, not at all.” The ambassador shrunk in height a bit, pulling its tentacles in closer and shortening its eyestalks, embarrassed to have what should have been obvious pointed out to it by an engineer.

“Oh.” Carlie straightened a non-existent wrinkle out of her coverall. “Did we…encroach on someone else’s territory?”

The ambassador returned to its properly dominant shape. “Not at all. The Conglomerate wondered, though, why it is your species is spreading so far, and so thin. Wouldn’t it be prudent to build up your populations in a system before colonizing yet another?”

Carlie laughed, a sound that the translator couldn’t identify. “Not really. We were over ten billion on Earth before we even started a colony on Mars…the next planet out in our star system.

“We nearly killed ourselves on Earth, and the population on Mars grew faster than the infrastructure could be expanded. It was the feeling of having lots of room, I guess.”

She pointed out the window to the planet that passed by every hour on the station’s rotation. “The gravity in here is one-third of Earth normal. The planet out there is more than two times the diameter of Earth yet has a gravity of only eleven-point-seven meters per second squared. That’s right around twenty percent higher than Earth.”

“The point?” The ambassador felt it was getting nowhere with this creature.

“We’ve been finding lots of ‘Super-Earths’ like this one, but most have too high of a gravity for us to live on them. This one is like a paradise just waiting for us to shape it.”

She watched the planet transit past the window out of view before continuing. “Half the surface is covered in water…fresh water, and the climate is steady with tropical heat at the equator, mellowing to sub-arctic climates at the poles. A reasonable stellar rotation of thirty-four hours and a few minutes, and the existing microbial life is harmless.

“In short, this planet will be as important to humans as Earth in a matter of two or three generations.”

The ambassador lowered its eyestalks in query. “Does that mean that human expansion will stop here until this world is over-populated?”

Carlie tilted her head. “Why would we do that?”

“You just said yourself how important this planet is, and that it would be a paradise. Is that not enough?”

“Enough what?”

“For your species. Enough for your species. Will it make humans happy?”

“Of course…some…for a while.” Carlie put a tentative hand on one of the ambassador’s tentacles.

It was surprised as much by the gesture, as by the texture of the manipulator; smooth and dry, with small whorls and ridges that no doubt provided grip. “I think I have an understanding of humans, now. You will never be content.”

“Maybe. Are you saying that once we find something good, we should just stop? Be content and complacent and never strive for anything more?” Carlie shook her head.

“Not complacent,” it said, “just content. Expansion should only occur when the current holdings can no longer support the population. It is the civilized thing to do.”

“Look, Ambassador, we’re not all the same. Some humans will be content to settle down and stay put. Others won’t. We’ll continue seeking to expand our knowledge, capabilities, and our borders.”

Carlie patted the ambassador’s tentacle then stepped back. “It’s been a pleasure meeting with you, and answering your questions, but I have a lot of work to do.”

She turned to leave and stopped, turning back again. “The only sure way to protect humanity is to ensure we are spread far and wide. Tell your Conglomerate that if their idea of civilized is to expand only when your population is in jeopardy, we’ll continue to be uncivilized apes.”

Trunk Stories

The Dinner Vote

prompt: Write a story where a character’s life completely changes over the course of a meal.

available at Reedsy

Salvatore fumbled with the bow tie, an online video tutorial played on the tablet he’d leaned against the mirror. His pale blue eyes flicked back and forth between the screen and the mirror. The younger man in the video made it seem simple, yet he still struggled.

“Try this,” Eliza said, holding the tablet so it was reflected in the mirror. “Tell me again what this dinner’s about? And why I’m not invited?”

Salvatore found it easier to copy the movements of the video with it mirrored. “It’s about getting me on the board.” He finished tying a respectable bow and looked at the grey at his temples, standing out sharply from his black hair. “I should’ve dyed my hair.”

“No, you shouldn’t. You look distinguished.” Eliza kissed him the top of his head. “Especially in a tux.”

“Distinguished just means old.”

“Take a compliment.” She helped him into his jacket. “Now, why can’t you bring your fiancé to this dinner?”

“Fiancé, huh? When did that happen?”

“This is a common law state. We can claim to be married next year.” She straightened his lapels and stopped with her hands on his chest. “That counts as engaged, right?”

A smirk lit up his eyes. “I can’t argue that logic. But this is only for board members and prospective board members. Some sort of thing they do once a year.”

“I’m proud of you,” Eliza said. “You did the right thing and were rewarded for it.”

“I’m still shocked I have a job,” he said, “much less that I’m being considered for Simmons’ position.”

“What happened to him, anyway? I thought it’d be all over the news by now.”

“Ms. Butcher told me the board would handle it without involving the courts. The negative press would be more of a hit than the four or five million he embezzled.”

Eliza watched his face for a moment. “What are you stressing about now?”

“If they accept me on the board, I’ll be the oldest member.” He shook his head. “How the entire executive board of a large, old-money corporation could all be so young is…odd.”

“Maybe that’s why they’re so successful; new ideas.”

“Hmm.” Salvatore checked his watch. “My ride should be here any minute.”

Eliza gave him a kiss and squeezed his hand. “You’ll do great. Just be yourself.”

The limo pulled up for him as he stepped out his front door. The driver had opened the door for him by the time he reached the curb. It was as though the whole thing had been rehearsed.

The ride was silent, apart from the muted strains of some undefinable orchestral piece that surrounded him from hidden speakers. By the time the limo stopped at a mansion surrounded by woods, Salvatore had lost track of the time and where they’d gone. He checked his watch, an hour’s ride.

Before he could reach for the handle, the driver had opened his door. A woman in a butler’s uniform waited for him at the mansion’s entry. She gave a deep bow as she opened the door and stepped aside for him to enter.

Inside, another similarly suited woman called out, “Mister Salvatore Di Silvio; prospect.”

Across the expansive, marbled foyer, a double door was thrown wide. The music he’d been hearing in the limo carried from the room along with laughter and animated voices.

The woman who’d announced him bowed and said, “They’re expecting you, sir.”

“Thanks.” Salvatore walked to the open doors, the size and plain but rich decor of the foyer impressing him more with each step. Through the doors he entered a warm library with rich brown leather furniture, shelves of antique and likely rare books, a large serving cart on wheels bearing champagne and glasses.

The cart was attended by a young man dressed the same as the other servants. He didn’t ask but poured a glass for Salvatore and handed it to him with a slight bow.

Apart from Ms. Butcher, Salvatore knew the people present only by their images on the corporate website. He could place each to their name but knew nothing else about them.

As Ms. Butcher, CEO and President, looked to be at most thirty, and the oldest member of the board, Salvatore felt like a fish out of water. The other men wore their tuxedos with the casual ease that comes from familiarity, and the women wore their evening gowns with the same ease.

Before he got fixated on how stifling the collar and tie felt, he sipped at the champagne. He tried to make himself look at ease, but found it only made him more self-conscious.

“Welcome, Salvatore.” Ms. Butcher had approached from behind without him noticing.

He avoided jumping, just, and turned to face her. The emerald-green gown she wore made her black eyes shine, and her warm, golden-brown skin glow. Her crayon-red-dyed hair was tied in a sloppy bun that was far too flattering to not be a meticulous design.

“Ms. Butcher,” he said, “it’s an honor.”

“Please,” she said, “my name’s Drusilla, but call me Dru while you’re here, Sal. Can I call you Sal?”

“I—uh—sure. Sal’s fine, Dru.”

“Good. Now that’s out of the way, I think dinner is about to be served. I’ll walk you to the dining room.”

Salvatore found himself seated at the left hand of Ms. Butcher. Around the table sat the rest of the chief executives, minus the former CTO, Daniel Simmons. The collection of twenty-somethings, of all different shades, made Salvatore think of the “United Colors of Benetton” ads he’d seen as a child…before they got tragic.

The thing that stood out the most, though, was that bar himself, everyone at the table had black eyes. Not just dark brown, not even extra-dark brown…black; the iris and pupil indistinguishable.

Rather than the multi-course meal he expected, servants brought out full plates, restaurant style. A large portion of slow-braised pork, pan-seared vegetables, and a flaky roll rounded out the plate. No sooner was the plate set in front of someone than their water glass was filled with ice-cold spring water, and their wine glass generously poured with Domaine Leroy Musigny Grand Cru.

There was none of the standing on etiquette he’d have expected from such a display. Instead, everyone dug in and began small talk; many with their mouths full.

Salvatore followed suit, at least with the eating…he wasn’t one for talking with his mouth full. He noticed that several had already needed a wine refill. He was determined not to get drunk, so he took his time with his.

The pork was succulent and tender. He thought it might be some special pig raised on truffles and champagne or something of the sort, as the taste was exquisite and unique. The vegetables were just cooked, with plenty of snap, and hints of being seared in the rendered fat of the pig. The roll, he thought, was nothing special.

Ms. Butcher tapped her knife against her wine glass. Salvatore was surprised to see that she’d already cleaned her plate while he was only halfway done. “Everyone, my brothers and sisters, we have important business this year.”

The table grew silent aside from the soft clink of silverware on plates as the few still eating continued. Salvatore wanted to set his fork down and listen, but something compelled him to keep eating until his plate was empty.

“Daniel Simmons committed a minor sin, revealing an unforgivable one,” she said. “His minor sin—”

“He got caught!” someone yelled, leading to a round of raucous laughter. As the laughter continued, Salvatore finished his plate. He was hungrier than when he started. The thought of licking the juices off the plate teased at him.

“That’s correct,” Ms. Butcher said, regaining control. “However, Danny also committed the unforgivable sin of stealing from the family; his own brothers and sisters.”

There were tuts and grunts of disdain around the table. Salvatore clasped his hands under the table to keep from grabbing the plate and licking it. The hunger was growing, and he began to feel light-headed. He wondered if he’d been drugged.

“For that reason, Sal is here as a prospect.” She placed a hand on his shoulder, keeping him from listing to the side as he grew ever more dizzy. “From all signs, it looks like he’s a good candidate.”

The room grew darker in Salvatore’s vision, his eyes fixed only on the small pool of meat juice on his plate. Ms. Butcher’s voice seemed distant, dreamlike, while her hand on his shoulder felt like a vice, holding him in place.

“So, as we have reclaimed all that was Danny’s flesh, and as Sal’s body seems receptive, do any here oppose?”

No opposition was raised outside of Salvatore’s head. Had he heard right? The meat he’d just eaten, that he craved more of, was Daniel Simmons?

In the edges of Salvatore’s awareness, servants carried out the plates, glasses, and silverware. One of them handed a pitcher to Ms. Butcher, while another set out shot glasses filled with something he couldn’t make out.

She put the pitcher in front of his face, and he grabbed it. The smell intoxicated him, channeled all his new hunger toward the dark liquid. He began drinking it down in greedy gulps, not even stopping to catch a breath. By the time the pitcher was empty, his hunger seemed manageable, and his head cleared.

He saw the room clearly now, and by focusing on each of the others present, could see their true nature; ancient and undying, hidden in forever youthful flesh. All eyes were on him, and he realized he hadn’t taken a breath for quite a while.

Salvatore took in a great, deep breath, and sighed with a contentment that he’d never known could exist. The others clapped and welcomed him as a brother, and the new CTO.

Dru pulled him aside. “Avoid mortals for the next month or so, unless one of us is around. It’s for their safety.”

The evening ended with Dru presenting Sal with Danny’s heart. She explained that it wasn’t needed for the transformation, but it was traditional by now. He didn’t hesitate to wolf it down raw.

After the limo dropped him at home, he remembered Dru’s warning. It couldn’t be that bad, could it? He rode an hour in the limo without any problems…unless the driver is…. He let that thought die and checked his watch.

He opened the front door, and the familiar smells of home washed over him. Chief among them, Eliza. She turned the corner in the hall, and he was overwhelmed with emotion and hunger. He loved her more deeply than he thought possible, and at the same time, he wished to devour her; tear her flesh and eat it raw and wash it down with her blood.

“What’s wrong with your eyes?” she asked.

“I have to go,” he said. “Don’t wait up.” He slammed the door and ran. He knew there was an automated motel a couple miles down the highway. Without his car keys, though, it might be a long trip.

He was still debating whether to call Eliza and tell her to throw his keys out the window or not when he realized he had run all the way to the motel. His watch showed that he had run two miles, in a tuxedo, in less than six minutes.

He used his debit card at the kiosk to get a room. A look in the mirror as he got out of his tux both surprised him and was completely expected. The grey was gone, along with the faint lines around his eyes. He barely looked twenty, and his light blue eyes had turned black. He checked his teeth, but didn’t see any fangs, and he had no claws nor body hair he didn’t have before.

“I don’t know what I am,” he said to his reflection, “but I feel good, at least.”

He sat on the edge of the bed, too amped up to sleep, wondering what to do next. The sounds of someone exiting the shower in the next room combined with the smell that permeated through the thin walls, made him hungry…he began to wonder if he should go hunting.

Trunk Stories

When the War Came to Mizoo

prompt: Write a story where a character has to take on heavy responsibilities (perhaps beyond their age).

available at Reedsy

Papa and Bru-bru got called up for the big war. They said they’d come back heroes and Bru-bru could bring home a new wife or two. Papa was still half crippled from the last big war, and Bru-bru weren’t but fourteen summers. He was decent with a bow, though. He did the hunting and fishing while Papa ran the still and traded what he didn’t drink for vegetables and such.

The soldier-men gave Bru-bru a crossbow, and Papa a pistol and a shiny metal bar for his collar. Bru-bru’s hunting bow was still hung up in his room. Mama and me had already made a whole mess of arrows for him to hunt with, so that was settled.

Of course, it didn’t help us none if we couldn’t use the bow. Last time I tried, Papa laughed at me but Bru-bru said when I was strong enough to string it, I could try again.

It was still as tall as me, and all my weight weren’t enough to bend it to the string. “Mama, you think we might find a smaller bow somewhere?”

“I don’t know, Petal. We should probably just stick to the hare traps for our meat and try to trade the pelts for what we need.”

“What about the still?”

“What about it?”

“I watched Papa all the time when he was there. I know how to work it.”

Mama sighed. “Just don’t burn yourself.” She looked older than Papa. Not from wrinkles or nothing, she just seemed…beat. Like an old dog kicked out of the pack.

That thought made me nervous. “Mama, what are we gonna do if the dogs come around?”

“The house is strong. We can just stay inside until they get tired of waiting and leave.”

There was a sharp rap on the door. Mama opened it, while I stood behind her. A soldier-man was there with a paper in his hand. He pointed at me. “Boy! Can you read?”

Mama looked back and forth between us; the soldier-man calling me a boy and asking if I could read, and the girl dressed in her Bru-bru’s hand-downs.

“Are ya deaf, boy?”

I shook my head no.

“Can you read?”

I nodded.

He handed me the paper. “Make sure you read this to your mama, now, understand?”

“Y—yes, boss.”

“How many summers are you?”

“Nine, boss.”

“You’re a mite small for nine, but you exercise and hunt, and you’ll be ready to fight by your thirteenth summer, for sure.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Course, the war might be over afore then.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Okay, boy. You take care of your mama. You’re the man of the house until your Sir comes home.”

“Yes, boss.”

He left with a polite tip of his hat to me, and not a glance in Mama’s direction. Once he was out of sight, Mama closed the door and let out a heavy sigh.

“I’m so sorry, Petal. I froze up. Now they think you’re a boy. If they knew you was dressed in your brother’s clothes, they’d lock me up and send you off to the girl’s home.”

“Don’t worry none, Mama. We both was ascared.”

“But they think I have a boy here who can read. What can we do? If that paper’s important, we’ll never know.”

“Mama, I can read.”

Her look went from worried to shocked back to worried. “What?”

“I, uh…just can,” I said. “I figured it out when I looked at Bru-bru’s letters and words.”

I learned myself how to read and write from sneaking when Papa was learning my Bru-bru. Mama didn’t know, and it ain’t something girls is supposed to do. I wasn’t about to tell her that, ’cause she might swat my butt.

To keep Mama from digging any deeper, I laid the paper on the table and began sounding out the words. “The Shine house will pay one boar or one deer or two goats or equal worth each new moon as a war tax. If not paid, the Shine land and buildings and belongings, to include the still and all womenfolk, will become property of the Army of Mizoo.”

“If the soldier-men take me, you run, Petal; hear me?”

“Mama, they ain’t gonna take you.”

“They might. This moon it’s a boar or two goats, next moon it doubles, then doubles again until we can’t pay. Skies above, we can’t pay now, and new moon’s in five days.”

“If we can’t figure it out afore then, we can both run,” I said. “I already miss my Bru-bru and Papa…I can’t be missing you too.”

“If your brother was here, we’d have no problems. He was always hunting enough to for us and others as well.”

“Mama, if Bru-bru was here, we wouldn’t be having war taxes. We got the still,” I said, “and I can finish the batch Papa started. The mash is ready to strain and ’still.”

“Just be careful. Don’t want to blind nobody.”

“I know how to skip out the foreshots and heads, get the hearts, and leave the tails. I watched Papa enough times.”

“It’s too late to start tonight,” Mama said, “so how about you tend to it in the morning?” She set out the last of our bread and butter for dinner.

“Yes’m. I can set some hare traps, too.”

“I’ll deal with those, Petal. If we can’t find someone to do our trading for us, we’ll have to hope the soldier-men will take hooch and hare-hides.”

“Why can’t we trade for ourselves?”

“It’s not a woman’s place to do business,” she said from rote.

“Widow Baker does business,” I told her.

“Widow Baker is past bearing age, she ain’t gotta worry about women’s rules no more.”

We ate our dinner quiet-like, and I busied my mind over the trading. “Mama,” I asked, “what if I do our trading?”

Mama just sighed and looked at me all sad-eyed.

“They already think I’m a boy. It’s just ’til the war’s done and Papa and Bru-bru is home.”

Mama didn’t say nothing else, so I figured it was settled up. We was about to go to sleep in the women’s room until she started what-iffin’ about soldier-men coming in the night.

If they did, a boy…or pretend boy…sleeping in the women’s room would be trouble. Almost as much trouble as finding out I was a girl wearing boy-clothes that knowed my letters.

The soldier-man said I was the man of the house now, but I didn’t feel right sleeping in the mister’s room in Papa’s bed. I slept in Bru-bru’s bed in the boy’s room. The smell of his blanket made me feel safe. It also made me miss him even more.

The soldier-men didn’t come that night, despite Mama’s worrying. The next day, I strained the mash and started up the still. It took me longer than Papa, but I finished it by sundown. I had nine jugs of hooch, just the hearts. Papa usually got ten, but I was scared of gettin’ any of the heads in.

If your hooch makes folks sick, they won’t buy it no more, ’less they’re stuck to it and get the shakies without it. The Shines was known for the best hooch, and I didn’t want to let Papa down being sloppy or greedy.

The next day, I took the little wagon into town with all the hooch. Since Papa always kept back a few jugs for hisself, I figured I should be okay to trade with nine.

I’d never been to town, so it was all new to me. I knowed how folks traded when they came out to the house, so I tried to do like that. All the able-bodied menfolk were gone, except for the soldier-men that guarded the town and collected the taxes.

I wanted to get as much as possible for the hooch. Enough for the taxes, plus some grain to set more mash, plus some vegetables for me and Mama. It’s hard, though, when the only folks left in town to trade with were boys too young or men too old to fight…and Widow Baker.

I was about to turn tail to home when a boy a little older, and a lot bigger than me stepped in front of me. “What’s slippin’ little man? You look a mite lost.”

“I’m trying to trade this hooch for war taxes, some grain, and some vegetables for the table.”

“What’s your name?”

“Pet—Petro.” I’d almost spilt my name. Petal ain’t no name for no boy.

“Weird name, Petro. I’m Carlson…Carlson Weaver.”

“Petro Shine.”

“Oh! This is old man Shine’s hooch?”

“Well, I ’stilled it from his mash. Papa got called to war with my brother.”

“How old are you?”

“Nine.”

“And you the only boy at home?”

I nodded.

“Listen, little man. Don’t never call your Sir ‘Papa’ anywhere but home. You should be growed out of that by now.”

I nodded again. The rules for women were strict, but it seemed the rules for the menfolk might be every bit as strict.

“Papa is for girls and boys too young to work. You working, so you call him Sir from now on, hear?”

“Th—thanks, Carlson.”

“How much for the hooch?”

I shrugged. That part of the negotiation always took place out of sight and sound of womenfolk.

Carlson picked up one of the jugs. “Feels a mite heavy.” He pulled the cork and looked inside.

“Look here,” he said, pointing at a stripe on the side of the jug, “you only got to fill it to there. If’n this gets hot, it’ll spill out the top. Are they all this full?”

“Yes, boss.”

“Don’t call me boss, I ain’t old enough for that, at least till next summer. Just think of me as an older brother.”

“Right.”

“Do you have an empty jug with you?”

I shook my head.

“Come with me,” he said, dragging me and the wagon behind him.

He led me to his home, where he went in and came back out with four empty jugs. He then took his time pouring out the tops of the nine jugs into one of the empties. Sure enough, it filled that jug and then some.

“What do you want for your help?” I asked.

“That depends,” he said. “Is this hooch as good as your Sir’s?”

I shrugged. It smelled the same to me, but the few sips I’d managed to steal in the past didn’t do much but burn my mouth, same as this.

Carlson took the tenth jug and pulled a sip from it. He held it in his mouth and swished it around before swallowing. “It tastes just like your Sir’s. I’ll take this jug for my grand-Sir who ain’t at war on account of bein’ too old. That’s my payment.” He set the jug inside his house and drug me back to the center of town.

We walked the town, Carlson introducing me to the old men and soldier-men still there. By the end of the afternoon, he’d negotiated taxes for our house and his own for four jugs of hooch. I didn’t get mad that he paid his house tax with my hooch until I figured it out later. I was too far over my own head to figure out the goes-ons while they was happening.

While we traded, we collected another seven empties. He also got me enough grain to start two more mashes, a bushel basket of vegetables, four loaves of bread, two blocks of butter, and half a boar that he’d hunted. He was younger than Bru-bru was when he shot his first boar, so I figured he might teach me the bow.

“When I come to town next time,” I said, “will you teach me how to use the bow?”

Carlson laughed. “Little man, you’re too small.”

“You ain’t that big yourself,” I said, “but you got a boar.”

“My Sir got me a crossbow for my tenth summer. It’s easier for hunting and makes me ready for the war.”

“Your Sir knowed there would be a war?”

“’Course he knowed. My Sir said the same war’s been goin’ on over a hundred summers. It just moves around some. It always comes back here to Mizoo, though, and we gotta protect ourselves.”

“Who are we at war with?”

Carlson shrugged. “Them? My Sir said I’d know when I went myself.” He eyed me like a snake. “Didn’t your Sir fight in the war?”

“He did.”

“What did he say?”

“He stayed shtum about it. Stopped hunting after, too. He was all sorts of busted up when he come home, though, and Bru—my brother…was already hunting by then. My Sir just been making hooch, like he did afore, only all the time now.”

“Well, I’ll find out next summer, and if’n you ain’t turned thirteen when I get back, I’ll tell you.” Carlson made to go.

My head grabbed on his tax deal, the angries grabbed on my mood, and I grabbed on his arm. “Wait! You owe me half a boar or a goat.”

“What d’ya mean?”

“You paid your taxes with my hooch, and only gave me half a boar for it. Taxes is one boar or two goats. I want a goat.”

“Petro, you’s already good at business. I’ll drop a goat at your house as soon as I get one.”

“Before new moon,” I said, “or the price doubles.”

“Hold on, now. Is that any way to treat your big brother?”

My fists curled up tight. “I dunno. Is tryin’ to slick me out a jug of hooch any way to treat your little brother?”

Carlson looked at me and started laughing. “Skies above, you look so serious. Don’t worry, little brother. You’ll have a goat tomorrow or the day after, latest. Wouldn’t want you tellin’ tales about the Weaver boy not payin’ his debts.”

“And not a kid!”

“Not a kid, a full-on goat.” Carlson ruffed my hair. “Now head on home to your mama, you got to tend to her. Keep her outta trouble, little man.”

“I’ll see you when the next batch is ready.”

“I’ll be waitin’, but not as hard as my grand-Sir.”

I pulled the wagon home, knowing that next time I’d have to make the same deals myself…minus the taxes. Now that Carlson had introduced me around, though, it should be easier.

It wasn’t until I got home and unloaded everything that what I’d done set into my bones. I was a girl, doing business, in boy clothes, with a fake name, and reading and writing in public.

Mama grabbed me as the panics made me shake and cry. She held me til I fell asleep, then laid me in Bru-bru’s bed.

I woke in the middle of the night and cried all quiet-like for missing Bru-bru. I wished the war would move away from Mizoo and never come back.