Trunk Stories

Cloud-Four

prompt: Write about a character whose job is to bring water to people.

available at Reedsy

Pre-jump checks were complete, all systems were green, and the crew of four were antsy to get going. The ship was barely more than a cockpit and engines attached to a giant cargo pod.

“Cloud-four, this is gate control. Verify your jump plan.”

As the copilot, it was Barn’s job to communicate with gate control. Just as well, as the pilot, Merilee, was as likely to chew their head off as give an answer.

“Gate, cloud-four. Verify jump to Tau Ceti at rate three-point-seven, immediate re-jump to Linden at rate four-point-zero.”

“Cloud-four, I am obligated to remind you that the Linden gate is in an active war zone.”

“Gate, cloud-four copy, Linden gate is in an active war zone.”

“Cloud-four, gate. Cargo check cleared, proceed to aperture three. Cleared for departure.”

“Gate, cloud-four, copy proceed to aperture three, departure aye.”

“Good luck and Godspeed, cloud-four.”

Barn clicked off the mic and watched as Merilee guided the ship to the shimmering aperture. She entered the commands to spool up the warp shield, then shot forward through the shimmer into the featureless grey of superluminal space.

“I am obligated to remind you,” she said in an exaggerated, nasal tone, “active war zone. Godspeed you stupid gits.”

Barn chuckled. Liv, the navigator, laughed out loud. “Cap, are you saying we’re stupid?”

“Of course,” Merilee said in her normal voice. “Who else could they find to do this?”

“You got it all wrong, Cap.” Kara turned her chair from the engineer station to face the others. “We ain’t stupid, but we sure ain’t all there. More like crazy.”

Barn leaned back. “I second crazy. Cap?”

Liv raised an eyebrow. “What’s the matter, Barn? Feeling insecure being the only guy, have to get Cap’s approval?”

“Bite me, Liv.”

Kara giggled. “Mom! They’re fighting again!”

“Don’t make me pull this warp bubble over,” Merilee said with a false sternness.

“It’s cool,” Liv said, “that we’re all in a good mood, but we gotta make a plan for when we get there.”

“We’ll get the latest news TC has at the gate before we jump,” Merilee said. “After that, we’ll be winging it.”

“I hope that ain’t literal,” Liv said. “There’s no way we can go atmospheric with a load.”

“We can…sort of,” Kara said.

Merilee laughed. “I don’t know whether to be proud or afraid when you say things like that. We’re locked in warp for the next nine hours, I’ll take first watch, Barn. Why don’t you two come up with some contingency plans. It doesn’t matter how wild it sounds, we’ll consider it, and fly it if need be.”

Barn stood. “Coffee, Cap? Anybody else?” After getting affirmative responses from all three, he left the cockpit for the small galley and ordered three cups of coffee and a water from the drinks dispenser.

Merilee sipped at her coffee, headphones playing music and system updates. Liv and Kara pored over charts of the Linden system and the planet that held the disputed colony, drawing out possible paths from the gate, ways to offload without getting shot, and more.

Barn took a nap in one of the hammocks in the “crew quarters” that had been set up for just that. He woke a few hours later and relieved the captain. Resuming the music where she’d left off, he was surprised she’d been listening to Bach. It suited him just fine.

He looked at the plans the navigator and engineer had come up with. The captain had already organized them from most preferable and safest, to what could only be considered last-ditch efforts. Lowest on the list was to skim the upper atmosphere and dump the load there, hoping that at least some made its way to the colony.

He felt a tap on his shoulder and removed the headset. Liv handed him a cup of coffee. “Me and Kara are gonna take a nap. You’ll be okay by yourself for a while?”

“Sure, Liv. Thanks. Oh,” he said, raising a finger, “don’t wake the Cap, or I’ll hear about it all day.”

“I said we’re crazy, not suicidal.”

By the time they exited warp at Tau Ceti, the crew were all at their stations. Liv downloaded the latest information available about the situation at Linden while Kara did a once-over of the systems checks.

Barn clicked on his headset. “Gate control, cloud-four exiting aperture one, requesting immediate departure for Linden at rate four.”

“Cloud-four, gate. Negative on rate four to Linden. Military requires all vessels to clear the lane as quickly as possible, minimum rate six.”

“Gate, cloud-four, copy minimum rate six for Linden, hold for instructions.” He turned to Merilee. “Cap? Do we go at six?”

“Six with a full load is pushing it. Liv, estimate fuel reserves after a six to Linden.”

She was already in the process of doing just that. “Aye, Cap. Leaves us with nine percent main fuel, and reserves. Enough to maneuver, unload, and set down for refuel…just.”

Merilee turned on her headset. “Gate, cloud-four. Any fuel available here?”

“Cloud-four, gate. Nearest fuel arrives in twenty hours.”

Merilee growled. “Gate, cloud-four. Copy, no fuel.” She turned to look at the rest of the crew. “This is it. We either do this now or pack up and go home.”

“I’m in,” Kara said, and Barn nodded in agreement.

Liv took a deep breath. “Let’s do this!”

Barn turned his headset back on. “Gate, cloud-four requesting immediate clearance for Linden at rate six.”

“Cloud-four, gate. Proceed to aperture two, you are cleared for departure.”

“Gate, cloud-four. Copy proceed to aperture two, departure aye.”

As Merilee shot the ship forward through the aperture, the mangled hulk of a military ship emerged from one of the other apertures. They all had just the briefest glimpse of it, but it was disquieting all the same.

The ship rattled and the solid grey of superluminal space sparkled with stray hydrogen atoms demolishing themselves on the warp bubble. Kara kept a constant eye on fuel usage, warp shield level, and generator temperatures while Merilee leaned back and closed her eyes.

“Wake me up when we’re close to the Linden gate,” she said to Barn.

What they had planned as a seven-hour trip would take less than two, and Barn found himself nervous. He kept his attention on their course and the bubble, trying not to think too hard about what they’d find when they exited the gate.

At twenty minutes before the gate, Barn woke Merilee, and she set the flight system up such that she could assume manual control with a single keystroke. “Liv, I want all sensors online as soon as we de-bubble. We’re not stopping, and we’ll be heading on course Alpha-two. I just hope there’s nothing in the way.”

Liv asked, “Shouldn’t we wait until we—”

“No. You all saw that destroyer. It’s going to be dangerous no matter what, but I’m not sitting still just to be a target.”

They exited the gate at speed. The second the sensors came online, a collision warning blared. Merilee took manual control and did a hard-burn left lower quadrant turn. Barn kept his hands on the controls, assisting with extra muscle as the ship tried to fight back.

Despite the radical maneuver, the ship turned slowly, the inertia of its laden mass difficult to overcome. They missed colliding with the burned-out hulk of another freighter by meters, instead being pelted with bits of debris.

“Any of that get through the hull?”

“No, Cap. We’re still good,” Kara said.

“Talk to me Liv.”

“Fighters in low orbit, thirty minutes until they can lock on us. There’s a platform in geostationary orbit, south of the colony.”

“Colony’s not directly on the equator, but that orbit gives them eyes on it,” Barn said. “Any read on what it is?”

“Coming up now, Barn.” The sensors continued their noise as Merilee piloted the ship into a lower and lower orbit. “Got it. No weapons, eyes only.”

“Liv, any read on the shuttles?”

“No shuttles in orbit or atmo.”

“Kara, how sure are you about your idea?”

“Well, Cap, if you can fly it, it’ll work. The recovery chutes were refurbished last month, so at least we know they’re good.” She began calling up other systems on her console and muttered under her breath, “Just hope the thrusters are strong enough.”

“Liv, make it happen. Descending, geostationary orbit directly over the colony. At eighteen kilometers altitude we deploy the recovery chute. I’ll manually control the thrusters to set us down just outside the colony.”

Liv’s fingers flew over her console. “In position in ten seconds, Cap.”

Merilee turned off manual control. “Manual off, go when ready.”

“Three…two…one….” The ship’s computer took over navigation, putting them directly over the colony in a steadily slowing, steadily falling trajectory. The difference in speed between the ground below them and the high atmosphere buffeted the ship, the engines whining in their effort to maintain position while dropping like a rock from the sky.

Barn watched their remaining fuel empty out, then they started burning reserves. He ground his teeth in anticipation.

At eighteen kilometers, the engines grew silent, and for a few seconds they were in free-fall, until the chutes deployed fully, yanking on the ship and slowing its descent. Merilee once again took manual control, using her console to determine their location relative to the ground now that the chutes held them in a tail-down position.

As the parachutes strained against the weight of the fully loaded ship, Merilee used the thrusters to adjust their trajectory. “It’s gonna be a hard landing,” Liv said.

“She can handle it,” Kara said, “I’m pretty sure.”

Barn let the comments go past him. He was busy mirroring the captain’s movements, ready to provide extra muscle or take over completely in case of failure. He watched the altimeter wind down far too fast for a recovery landing.

“Cap! We got trouble!” Liv sent the sensor data to the captain’s heads-up display.

“Incoming fighters,” Merilee said. “We’re a big target.”

“How long until they’re in range?” Kara asked. The sound of bullets hitting the outer skin of the ship thumped and echoed. “Oh.”

“Twenty seconds to land,” Barn said. “Brace for impact.”

The engines cut out and the four of them held their breath, their harnesses pinning them in their seats, their backs to the ground. The impact was sudden and jarring.

“I it my ongue,” Kara said.

“Aside from Kara’s tongue, is everyone okay?” Merilee asked.

“Yeah, just as soon as my heart slows down,” Barn said.

“Well, ain’t that a sight?” Liv had already removed her harness and stood on the back of her chair. She pointed through the forward window above them to the fighters falling from the sky in flames.

As they watched, the chute, almost settled, filled with wind and pulled toward the bottom of the ship where the cargo hold contained most of the weight. “Liv, strap in!” Merilee clenched her fist as Liv scrambled to return to her seat.

She wasn’t fast enough, and the ship leaned, seemingly balanced on edge for a second, before slamming down to its normal position.

Liv was thrown to the floor, where she groaned. She sat up, touching her forehead where blood poured from a gash.

“Kara, grab the first aid kit and patch up her head. Barn, get on the radio. Let ’em know we’re two kilometers south of the colony.”

“Oh, they already know,” Barn said, pointing at the rescue vehicles barreling toward their location.

Merilee helped Liv down first, for the medics to treat, then Kara. “How’s your tongue?” she asked.

“It hurts, but I’ll live.”

“Have the medics check you out anyway. I see you trying to hide all the blood you’re swallowing. That’ll just make you sick. Quit trying to be a badass.”

“Aye, Cap.”

“Barn?”

“Shaken, but uninjured,” he said.

“I’d feel better if the medics check you out, too, anyway.”

Merilee followed him down and walked away from the ship to assess the damage. The cargo hold was dented, but not pierced. The upper hull, though, looked like Swiss cheese, thanks to the bullets of the fighters.

One of the colony’s military leaders pulled up next to her. “You’re lucky to be alive,” he said.

“Luck has nothing to do with it.” Merilee looked at the damage to the upper hull again. “Well, maybe it does. Anyway, we heard the xenos destroyed your reservoir and things were grim, so we came.”

“What’s your ship’s call sign, and what’s the cargo?”

“Cloud-four,” she said. “One through three didn’t make it through, so, we had to. Cargo is 590,000 cubic meters of water.”

“Thank whatever gods there are you got here.”

“This should hold you until we get patched up and bring another load. Hopefully to unload in orbit like a sane person next time.”

Trunk Stories

His Last Hour

prompt: Set your story in a world where the currency isn’t money — or at least not money as we understand it.

available at Reedsy

Willard fiddled with the last purple bead on the band around his right wrist. The band around his left was devoid of beads. He’d traded the yellow and orange striped miller’s bead to the blacksmith for one of her black beads, which he then traded to the hunter for a fowl for dinner.

The hunter had been too kind. It was usually two for a fowl, three for a hare or a joint of boar or venison. Taking care of the hunter’s lodgings and gardens took time that would have reduced the time he’d have to hunt.

When he’d been more in demand, Willard had several bracelets of others’ beads on his left wrist. “Give with the right, collect with the left,” the saying went, but he’d long since passed the point where he could collect anything.

He’d had powers, once…magics that he could perform on behalf of others. One of his conjurations had gone wrong, and the daemon he sought an answer from took his power away. Now, all he had to offer was teaching.

Reading and writing were of little value to most of the village, and of those who did value it, all were already versed. Basic mathematics were more valued, but again, with no children to teach, Willard had nothing to offer.

He knew nothing of farming, smithing, milling, baking, building or any of the myriad other chores that people traded with. Perhaps, if there was a legal dispute, as the most learned in the village, Willard could act as solicitor. That was an unlikely scenario, though.

It was good that his dwelling had been built years ago, in a part of the wood that had no value to the farmers, hunters, or others. The ground was damp and soft, the game rare. In high summer it was swarmed with mosquitos, and in winter thick fogs nestled in and settled for days at a time.

His stone cottage stayed warm and dry, and he was thankful that even when his powers had been taken, the enchantment against insects held. As the fowl stewed in the pot hung over the fire, Willard contemplated how he had fallen so far.

He still had firewood, that he had collected himself. It took him three times longer, if not more, than the woodsman, but he had no time left to barter away; save the lone, remaining bead on his right wrist. The small garden plot behind the cottage still grew cabbage and beans in season, though it was far too hot for them now.

Willard retired early, settling into an uneasy sleep. The daemon that had taken his power returned to his dreams as it had most nights.

He woke to the first songbirds, the skies clear and the day promising to be hot and muggy. He had half a fowl left to get him through the day, but nothing else to eat.

Refusing to show defeat, Willard held his head high as he walked to the village and entered the bakery. He placed his last bead on the counter. “Horse bread please.”

The baker scowled and placed a single loaf of the low-quality bread on the counter. “There ya’ go, magus.” The emphasis on the last word was dismissive.

“Horse bread is three loaves an hour, not one,” he said.

“For you, it’s one.” She pointed at the loaf. “Take it or leave it.”

“It’s three loaves an hour, for everyone. That’s the whole point. No one’s time is worth more than anyone else’s.”

“Tell that to the rest of the village. In fact, if you can trade your one hour for anyone else’s, I’ll trade the three loaves and throw in a loaf of white bread.”

Willard took his bead and left. He wandered around the village, asking for anyone willing to trade an hour of their time for an hour of his. He was met with outright hostility by some, derision by others, and an apologetic “I have no need of a teacher” by others.

By the third hour, he had grown tired of trying to remind the villagers of the system they all claimed to abide by.

Value is something woven in time,
Hours the warp and labor the weft.
No difference in worth between thine and mine;
Give with the right, collect with the left.

There remained only one person left to ask, and he dreaded it. The tinker, for whom Willard had summoned the daemon. Not only had it cost him his power and begun his downfall, he had failed to get the answer the tinker sought, though she paid him for it anyway.

Willard heaved a deep sigh and entered the tinker’s shop. She was busy rounding out a pot with a small hammer and didn’t hear him enter.

“Madam, I wonder if I could trade an hour for an hour,” he said.

She turned with a broad smile. “Magus! How good to see you!” She had several bracelets around her left wrist. Most notable was one that held all but the last of his purple beads. Her own bracelet, on her right wrist, was full. Seventy beads, the total number every villager had to trade when they reached the age of maturity.

It equated to one week of steady work. There, on her left wrist, was sixty-nine hours of his own labor, frozen in waiting for her to collect.

“I see you have only one hour left to trade in advance,” she said.

“Well you should know, since you hold all my hours hostage, it seems.”

“I just haven’t found a use for you yet, and I’ve not stopped others from trading your hours for their own.”

“I implore you, madam, please, may I trade my last hour for another’s…anyone’s.” He tried to smile, though it didn’t feel like he succeeded. “The baker is refusing a fair trade for my hour, though she said she would for any other.”

Her smile grew. “Of course, magus. In fact, I’ll trade you one of the baker’s.” She removed one of the brown and gold beads from her left wrist and added one of her own silver beads. “I’m giving you one of mine, as a way to say to thanks, and I hope there are no hard feelings between us.”

“O—of course. Thank you. You are far too kind.”

She added the purple bead to the bracelet on her left wrist as he added the other two to his. A swirl of black smoke rose from the center of the room and a figure stepped out: the daemon that had taken his power.

“Well done, child. His power is now yours.” A glow spread from the daemon’s hand and surrounded the tinker, settling into her.

“You—you tricked me! You knew the daemon would take my power and made a deal to take it for yourself!” Willard calmed himself. “And what, pray tell, is the price you have to pay?”

“What are you talking about old man? I got you to summon him and collected all your hours as he required.”

Willard felt his joints loosening, his skin tightening, vision and breath becoming clearer. He looked around the tinker shop and realized that he knew how to fix every item there. Even though he no longer had his power, he could still sense what the magic was doing throughout the village.

The tinker, now the magus, grew old before his eyes. Her back stooped, her fingers gnarled, her hair turning white and her skin wrinkling. She dropped the hammer in surprise. “What?! What is happening?”

“You got what you bargained for,” he said. His left wrist filled with the beads she’d previously held, his right wrist held all but one of her, now his, silver beads. In place of his robe, he wore the outfit of a tinker. Her left wrist now held the two beads she’d given him, showing just beyond the frayed sleeves of her robe.

“This—this is not how it’s supposed to happen! You had hours from everyone!”

“Yes, when I had power. You saw to it that it was taken away. Perhaps you can do some spells and convince the village your power is back, perhaps not.” He walked around behind the bench where she’d been working and picked up the hammer. Being able to bend over so easily was something he’d long since forgotten.

“But…what am I to do?”

“For starters, take the baker’s bead to her. I suspect she’ll give you three loaves of horse bread and a loaf of white. You will find half a game fowl in the pot, and enough wood for a few days in your cottage. You can bring the kettle in with my silver bead, and I’ll repair it for you.”

“It’s not—”

“What? Fair? Time is time, and you are using mine up. I would suggest you not mention this to anyone else, lest they think the magus has lost her mind and is no longer trustworthy.”

“I—I’ll get to the bottom of this.”

“I’m sure you will. Your library in the cottage is quite extensive, including a book on demonology. Oh, I do have a task for you, though.” He held up a samovar he knew was his, now. Enchant this with the ‘Blessing of Auriculus.’ You’ll find it in the book labeled, ‘Household items,’ third shelf from the top, right-hand side. It should take about an hour. I’ll pay you back one of your hours when you’ve completed it.”

Willard went back to work on the pot, rounding it out where it had been crushed. As she paused in the doorway, he called after her. “Magus, I hope there are no hard feelings between us.”

Trunk Stories

Score One for the Nutters

prompt: Start your story with a couple sharing a cigarette in a parking lot.

available at Reedsy

The ember glowed as the tall, lanky, reddish-brown woman with close-cropped black hair took a drag. It dulled as she passed it to the pale-skinned, gaunt, red-haired woman a full head shorter beside her.

“Ta,” the red-haired woman said before taking a drag.

“You think it’s over, Red?”

“I hope so,” Red said. She held out the cigarette to the other woman whose gaze seemed to be fixed on something on the horizon. “LT?”

“Nah, kill it.” The lieutenant leaned back against the truck, the only vehicle not reduced to a smoldering puddle of slag in the parking lot by virtue of arriving after the initial attack.

The low-hanging clouds made the transition from the rising smoke of the ruined city to the sky invisible. Occasional shifts of the breeze brought the heat of the burning mall to the two women and embedded the stench of burning plastic into their ragged uniforms.

“Shit,” Red said as she ground the butt under her shoe, “that’s the last.”

“What’s that, Red?”

“That was the last one, Ma’am.” She pointed at the mall. “I bet they had some in there.”

“You want to go into a burning building to find smokes?”

“No, I’ll just have to cope.” Red turned her attention to the display in the truck’s cab.

“Any response?”

“Not yet. I just hope the response comes from people rather than….”

“You and me both. I don’t think the machines will ping our comms before they show up, though.”

A rumble from the burning mall pulled their attention. Both raised rifles, held at the ready for whatever would show. A six-legged machine forced its way out of the mangled doors, its normal high-speed gait hindered by two non-functioning legs and one that seemed to lack a full range of motion.

“Scout runner,” the lieutenant said, “and it’s broken. At this range, take your time, take out the good legs.” She took careful aim at the joints of the working legs, firing only in the moment that leg was supporting the machine’s weight.

The lieutenant did her best to remain calm, knowing that any moment the scout could fire its energy weapon and reduce the truck she hid behind to slag. As the scout continued to drag itself toward them, however, it never fired.

Its progress was halted a few meters away, after sixty-four rounds. The lieutenant grabbed the tire iron from the truck. “Cover me.”

“What’re you doing, LT?”

“I want to find out what sick bastard made these things. The crazies were all shouting ‘Aliens!’ yesterday.” She hefted the iron and walked to the downed machine. “No markings, but I see a seam.”

With the flat of the tire iron driven into the seam, she tried to pry it open. When that failed, she pounded on the machine with the lug end of the iron.

“Hey, LT! Why don’t you try the rescue kit?”

The lieutenant returned to the truck and threw the tire iron in the back. “The what?”

“Rescue kit. If everything’s there, it should have a jaws.”

After wrangling the jaws of life into the tight seam on the machine, a hole began to open. A viscous, blue liquid, shimmering with sparkling particles, sprayed out under pressure. The women stepped back, waiting for the pressure to drop.

“What do you reckon that is?” Red asked.

“Maybe something to protect the electronics from shock. I don’t know.”

“Bloody hell,” Red said, “it’s all over the jaws.”

When the spray slowed to an oozing trickle, the lieutenant returned to the jaws to see if she could get a better purchase for the spreader arms. As her hand neared the blue liquid on the jaws, the liquid moved away from her and dropped to the ground.

“Looks like there’s some static effect or something,” she said, more to convince herself than Red.

“I don’t know, LT. You’re intel for a reason, but I’m a mechanic.” Red pointed at the ooze on the ground, where it was pulling in toward a central puddle. “And there’s no bloody way that is static.”

“Okay, Red. It’s weird, I agree. Let me see the electronics in here, though, and I’ll have an idea where it came from.”

With the pressurized liquid gone, the jaws of life ripped the case open with ease.

“Now that’s weird,” Red said. “With internal pressure it should have been easier to open, unless….”

“Unless?”

Red pointed at the shrinking circle of blue liquid that was slowly pulling itself into a domed pile. “Maybe the goo was holding it shut somehow.”

The lieutenant shook her head and looked inside the open machine. More blue liquid oozed its way up the sides of the machine to drip down and join the coalescing pool.

“There—there’s nothing in here.”

“There has to be a power supply of some sort, innit?”

“Nothing. An empty case except for the blue slime.”

Red moved closer to the open drone and peeked inside. “Well, I can tell you where it didn’t come from. Score one for the nutters.”

The lieutenant sighed and stepped away. “You’re right, it’s not human-made, for sure. Shit. I wish we could get to the continent.”

“Hey, it wasn’t my idea to blow the Chunnel. Maybe there’s still some boats somewhere.”

“Maybe.” The lieutenant began to laugh. “Alien machines…come out the sea…everywhere…and Her Majesty’s government thinks it’s a good idea to collapse the Chunnel.”

Ignoring the lieutenant’s momentary madness, Red said, “Me nan has a fishing boat in Weymouth. We could try to get down there.”

“Maybe. Would be easier if this thing ran.” The lieutenant kicked the truck.

“Well, even a mechanic can’t fill the petrol tank out of thin air.” Red leaned against the truck. “I thought for sure we’d find some here in the car park, but that’s buggered.”

“How far to Weymouth?”

“About 130 miles, give or take.”

“You’re sure there’s nothing closer?”

“Before everything went silent, the coast from Cromer to Worthing was hit. Isle of Wight, too.” Red shrugged. “Probably more, but nan’s boat is small; it might still be there.”

“Small is fine. At this point, I’d even row.” The lieutenant realized she hadn’t been paying attention to the blue liquid. When she looked for it, it was gone. “Where’d it go?”

Red pointed. “It’s going back into the mall.”

The ooze had formed itself into a sphere and rolled toward the still-burning mall. It made no deviations in its course, rolling over the slagged vehicles and detritus without slowing.

“I have a feeling it’s going back to report. Let’s get out of here.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“It’s a lot of walking. First usable car we find, we’re taking it.”

“Aye, leftenant. Nick the first car we see that drives.” Red stood watching as the lieutenant walked away.

“What are you waiting for, Red?”

She pointed in the opposite direction. “The M3, and Weymouth, is that way.”

Trunk Stories

You Told Me So

prompt: Write about a character who discovers the grass isn’t actually greener on the other side.

available at Reedsy

One week. It took one short week to shatter her entire world.

Most things are not binary but exist in degrees. For instance, there was want, desire, ache, obsession, and far above that, the degree to which Ty wished to move to the mainland.

“You what?!”

Ty flipped her short, bleached hair back. “I quit the gym, and I have my ticket to the mainland. I leave tomorrow.”

Lila covered her face in her hands, letting her warm brown hair fall around them. “I know I said I’ll always support your decisions, but I never said I wouldn’t tell you if I thought they were foolish.”

“Mom, stop it. It’s done.”

“Did you save enough for a return trip…in case it doesn’t work out?”

“I have my ticket, and enough money to hold me over until I get settled.”

“Do you have a job lined up?”

“Mother…really. I’m a personal trainer. There’s work anywhere there are gyms, you know, like, everywhere.”

“I really wish you’d given it more time, found a job first.”

Ty moved her mother’s hands away from her face and lifted her chin. “Mom, I’ll be fine. As soon as I get there, I’ll call to let you know I landed safe.”

“I’ll miss you, babygirl.”

“I’m an adult.”

“Yes, you are, but you’re still my baby. No matter what happens, if you need me, you call. I promise I won’t ever say ‘told you so’ about anything.”

#

Although she’d called her mother on landing, she wondered how she would describe the place she was staying. It was the cheapest room available with weekly rather nightly rates, but it was still far too much money for what it was.

She could try to convince her mother that it wasn’t a filthy hovel in a terrible neighborhood, but she’d never been able to successfully lie to her. Might be best to not bring it up, she thought.

Ty did her best to ignore the questionable brown stains on the carpet and wall, even though they looked a bit like dried blood…ketchup maybe, she tried to convince herself. Aside from her clothes, all of them workout wear, she had nothing worth stealing, so she wasn’t concerned about leaving the room to go job hunting.

She took a bus to downtown, where she would find the higher-end gyms. Her workout wear was newish, and very much in style. She carried a folder, weight belt, gloves, exercise bands, water bottle, towel and change of clothes in a small gym bag.

As she approached the first gym, a man in a shiny suit and dark glasses stepped in front of her. “Wow, island girl, you are insanely fit. You looking for that mainland money, baby? I can give you lots.”

Ty raised a fist and flexed; her delts, biceps, and pecs clearly defined. “You’re not my type, and I’m not your baby. Out of my way before I flatten your doughy ass.”

“Ohhh, yes, mistress,” he said, holding out a business card. “Please, mistress, I’ll do anything if you crush me with your thighs.”

Ty feigned vomiting and stepped around him. She noticed that the man at the front desk of the gym had been watching her exchange. That probably ruined my chance for a job here, she thought.

She entered the gym and set her bag by her feet at the counter after removing the folder.

“Looking for a membership?” the young man asked. His name tag said “Bruno” but she thought he looked more like a Colin or Caden.

“Hi. My name’s Ty, and I’m looking for work.” She opened the folder to her credentials and turned it so Bruno could see.

“Personal trainer and professional masseuse, huh?”

“Yes.”

“I hope your interactions with clients are better than with Creeper Carl, out there.”

Ty felt shame redden her cheeks. She took a deep breath and shook it off. “Yeah, I didn’t handle that well at all. It was just so…I’ve not been propositioned quite like that before.”

“Let me guess, he wanted you to crush him with your thighs.”

Ty nodded. “Yeah, but first he called me island girl and baby and tried to offer me mainland money.”

“He’s a major creep, thus the name. Used to work out here until we booted him out and banned him for life.” He leaned forward over the counter. “You looked like you were about to beat the crap out of him, but you controlled yourself better than I could have.”

“He probably would’ve enjoyed it, anyway,” Ty said.

That elicited a laugh from the young man. “I take it you were working as a trainer on the island?”

“Mornings, masseuse in the evenings.”

“If I could, I’d offer you a job,” he said, “but our trainers are hurting for clients as it is.”

“That’s okay,” Ty said, “there’s a lot of gyms.”

“Good luck out there. Nice to meet you, Ty.”

“Thanks, Bruno. Nice meeting you.”

He looked down at the tag on his shirt and chuckled. “The name’s Aiden, but whoever works the desk wears the Bruno tag.”

Ty began working her way out from that gym in an ever-increasing spiral. Every gym, spa, and fitness center said the same thing: Not hiring.

At one of the spas where she’d been turned down, Ty couldn’t help but flirt with the attractive young receptionist. When that flirtation was reciprocated, she gave the woman her number and left with a new bounce in her step. It was an hour later that she realized she hadn’t gotten the woman’s name.

The first week ended with no job, and no remaining gyms, spas or fitness centers she hadn’t checked. She was looking for other jobs, any jobs, when she got a call from an unknown number.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Ty. I don’t know if you remember me, but we talked at Lily Spa a few days ago and you gave me your number. I tried to text, but I kept getting an error.”

“Oh, yeah. I had to switch to a voice-only plan to save some money. Hey…uh…I forgot to ask your name.”

“Miri.”

“Hi, Miri.”

“Are you doing anything tomorrow evening? If not, I’d like to take you out for drinks and conversation.”

“Is that what they call it on the mainland?”

Miri laughed. “No, but seriously, I’d like to sit over drinks and talk to you for a while.”

“Yeah, I’d like that.”

“Butterfly Bar at nine. See you there.” She hung up before Ty could respond.

The following morning, she went to the front desk to pay for the next week. She’d planned on having enough money for at least a month, then she discovered what room rates and food prices were like. If she spent nothing else, she had enough for two weeks; one payable that day, the other a week later.

She laid out the payment for the next week, and the manager wrote her a receipt. “Any luck on the job hunt?” he asked.

“No. And I’ve checked every gym everywhere.”

“Oh? What do you do?”

“I’m a personal trainer and professional masseuse.”

“Well, it ain’t exactly a gym, but it’s a workout…,” he pointed at the Help Wanted sign on the door.

She read it over. “Housekeeping, huh?”

“Early mornings, until you finish for the day. No clocking in or out, but you got to finish your work.”

She looked at the bottom of the flyer. “That’s all it pays?”

“That’s it. Paid weekly.”

Ty sighed. It would cover her room, and, if she was careful, possibly keep her fed. She’d have to give up her phone, though. “That’s…not really enough to live on, is it?”

The man shrugged. “That’s what it pays. Of course, a pretty, little island girl like you could make a lot more in one night out there.” He pointed out to the street.

Ty knew what the women out there were doing after dark, and she would have none of it. “No. Not happening. Especially not with guys.” She heaved a sigh. “Can I start tomorrow?”

“Sure.” He pushed a form across the desk to her. “Just sign there, and don’t worry about what the night manager says, I’m your boss. He gives you any grief, tell him Al said, ‘Stuff it.’”

“Thanks…Al.”

The Butterfly Bar was on the edge of the neighborhood, straddling the boundary between the gentrified area and the seedy part where her hotel room lay. It was a short walk, but filled with whistles, catcalls, and inebriated men asking, “How much?”

It was quieter than she’d expected in the bar. Booths provided semi-privacy for conversation by low light, while a swinging door at the end led to a dance floor. Except for when the doors opened and the music poured through the bar in a tsunami of aural assault, only the low thump of the bass, more felt than heard, made itself known.

Miri was there waiting for her and motioned her to a booth. Ty sat to find a pitcher of beer and two glasses waiting for her.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Miri said, “but I took the liberty of ordering. If you don’t like beer, that’s fine, I’m sure I can finish it myself, if you promise to stuff me in a cab later.”

“Beer’s fine,” Ty said.

Miri poured her a glass with a practiced hand, resulting in the perfect head without overtopping the glass.

“Looks like you have practice.”

“College,” she said. “Worked as a bartender my freshman and sophomore year, then the spa while I was finishing my undergrad.”

“What’s your major?”

“Exercise Science.”

“Oh! I have an Associates in Massage Therapy, and a Bachelor’s in Kinesiology. I was going to go into physical therapy but fell in love with training.”

The conversation meandered through trivialities for a while, until the second pitcher appeared. “Ty, tell me about the island. What do I need to know to get by there?”

“Uh…it’s not…um…well.” Ty found herself struggling to come up with something coherent to say. “Maybe, if you tell me why, I can figure out what you need to know.”

“You know, basic stuff. What to wear when I show up for work, how to not piss people off unintentionally, where the gay bars are…the basics.”

“The gay…what?”

“Gay bars. You were flirting with me, right? Or did I read that entirely wrong? If so, I am so sorry.”

“I was flirting. I think you’re attractive, and interesting, and I’d like to get to know you better. But…gay bars?”

“Look around,” Miri said, “what do you think this is?”

Taking the time to notice her surroundings for the first time, she realized that most of the couples in the bar were same-sex couples. It was odd to her, since that sort of segregation was not something she was used to.

“Miri,” she said, “this is weird. All the bars on the island are the same. Do you mean that I can’t go to just any bar I want?”

“You can, but it can be dangerous. So, if two guys were making out in one of the bars on the island, what would happen?”

“Someone might tease them, tell them to get a room, but nothing else. Same for any couple doing that in public.”

“Wow! I am so in love with the island…I can’t wait!”

“A—are you moving to the island?”

“Yeah! I got a personal trainer position at a gym close to the beach. It doesn’t pay as much as it would here, but it’s so much cheaper to live there.” Miri stretched with a contented sigh. “And, I can go to any bar, anywhere, and be myself.”

“Wha—what gym?”

“Black Sands Fitness.”

Ty felt her heart drop. The one good thing she thought she’d found, was leaving, and taking—.

“What’s wrong?”

“That’s my old job,” she said, barely above a whisper.

“Well, you’re here to explore the mainland and have an adventure, right? How’s the search?”

“Housekeeping at the Overview. Pays just enough for rent.”

“Hey, hey.” Miri took her hands. “Chin up, island beauty. You’ll find something better.”

Ty didn’t want Miri to see her crying, so she excused herself and instead of going to the washroom walked out the front door. There was no end of men offering to help her “get over it” or ignoring her tears entirely while trying to buy her body.

She stopped in front of her room in the hotel and stared in shock. Did Al do it? The night manager? Someone who saw her going into the Butterfly Bar? Someone who couldn’t spell, anyway. Scrawled in red spray paint on her door in huge, capital letters, were the words “dyke” and “iland lezbain”. The paint was still wet, and she rushed into the room, bolted the door and collapsed in front of it.

Two hours later, Ty held the phone in shaking hands. When her mother answered, she broke down into deep, gut-felt sobs. “Mommy, I’m so sorry. You told me so.”

Uncategorized

We/I

prompt: Write a story where a character is experiencing parallel realities.

available at Reedsy

Something happened in the lab the other night. I’m not certain what but it was something.

I powered up the device, and there she…I…the other I…was. It was a possibility I hadn’t considered. By opening a door into a parallel universe, I opened the door to myself in that same universe.

Some clarification first. My name is Samuel Worth, I am a thirty-four-year-old physicist that likes doing stupid experiments in my garage. I go by Sam. Her name is Samantha Worth, a thirty-four-year-old physicist that likes doing stupid experiments in her garage…she goes by Sam.

One difference at our conception, or possibly even sooner. We look too alike to have a wildly different selection of genes from our mother and father. We knew, in an instant. Until the age of twelve, we looked identical.

I’d been called “girlish” when I was a child, she was called a tomboy. Right up until puberty hit us hard. We shared an awareness of our entire lives up to that point.

She reached out a hand, both of us unsure of what might happen. I reciprocated and our hands touched. At that moment, the machine powered down. My consciousness divided itself between two worlds, without severing the connection.

The following morning, he/I had to sit down to pee, because it was too confusing to try to do things differently than she/I. By the time we/I had finished breakfast and a cup of coffee, it was becoming easier to manage both of my selves at once.

Driving was probably dangerous, so we/I took public transportation to the university. We/I didn’t have any lectures today but had to maintain office hours.

“Dr. Worth? I have a question about the math behind Bell’s Theorem.”

He/I looked up at Caleb. He was a good kid, quiet, reserved, perhaps a little slow. In university on a swimming scholarship, did well in nationals, and hoped for a shot at the Olympics. Not the sort you’d imagine going for a physics degree, but he never stopped trying his damndest. He/I settled into going over the math with Caleb, when she/I was interrupted.

“Dr. Worth? Can you help me with this proof? I think I missed something.”

She/I looked up at Chloe. She was a “bad girl” type…at least, she tried to act that way. Not the sort you’d imagine going for a physics degree, unless you got to know her. Under the torn jeans, tattoos, hot pink mohawk, and acidic tongue hid a sharp mind.

We/I had a moment of panic, realizing we/I had just spent several uncomfortable seconds in a sort of fugue. “Sorry,” we/I said, “it’s been a strange day.”

For some reason that is still unclear to us/me, she/I and he/I changed places. She/I came up with a new approach to explain the difficult parts to Caleb, to help him grasp it, while he/I pored over Chloe’s proof, finding an arithmetic error in the midst, and helping her rework it from that point forward.

We/I finished the day with a fresh pot of coffee in the garage, trying to restart the device. By working from opposite ends, we/I was able to troubleshoot in half the time it would have taken otherwise.

The fact of the matter was, there was nothing wrong with the device. It just refused to start. Power levels in and out, and amperage drain on the circuit all pointed to it still running, but…nothing.

Even after unplugging the power supply, the device still showed current flowing through the circuits consistent with being powered on. The pot of coffee long since empty, we/I prepared for bed.

In front of the sink, we/I looked into the mirror. The same eyes, the same fine lines around them, the same hairline, but a masculine and feminine form both visible in the mirror. It was strange, and perhaps even more unnerving than the awareness of being two versions in two universes simultaneously.

We/I called the university and had our/my TAs take over lectures for the rest of the week. Every waking minute was spent in the garage, trying everything to reset the devices. We/I finally decided to destroy them. Break them down to unusable debris and never attempt this experiment again.

As the week went on, we/I felt our link growing weaker. She/I and he/I could still sense one another, but it was as though our local consciousness was again taking the forefront.

The final memories we/I had together were on Saturday evening. She/I was in a diner he/I usually frequented, while he/I was in a bar where she/I was a semi-regular.

Chloe left the booth where her similarly tattooed and pierced friends were laughing boisterously and approached. “Dr. Worth? I thought you said chicken and waffles sounded disgusting.”

“It wouldn’t be fair to dismiss it without empirical evidence. And I’m off work; call me Samantha, or Sam.”

“What’s the verdict, Sam?”

I smiled. “It’s fantastic. Just the way I remembered from another universe.”

Chloe laughed. “You’ll have to tell me about that some time.”

“Nope.”

“And, how you plan on traveling to another universe.”

Caleb entered the bar with other members of the swim team. “Come on, guys. Quit trying to hook me up. I just want to have a beer then go back to the dorms and study.”

He saw me at the bar and approached. “Dr. Worth! I never see you here.”

“Hey, Caleb. I’m off work, call me Samuel, or Sam.”

“Well, Doc—Sam, I didn’t take you for the wine type.”

I swirled the glass of red and took another sniff. “I remembered enjoying this in another universe,” I said.

“Is it as good in this one?”

“It is.”

“Do you think it’s actually possible to travel to another universe?” he asked.

We/I began explaining to Chloe and Caleb how the universe is well within the Schwarzschild radius for the amount of mass present, and how that presents the possibility that the universe itself has an event horizon we are well inside.

It was some time during that explanation that I no longer felt my other self, and suddenly felt very alone.

Trunk Stories

How to Plan a Party

prompt: Start your story with a character facing a situation that isn’t awful, but isn’t great.

available at Reedsy

Madison shifted from foot to foot as she waited for her boss to get off the phone. That he had called her in just before the end of shift was worrying. That’s when people get fired, she thought.

Her hardhat hung by the strap from her hand, her heavy gloves inside it. Red hair, flattened from the straps of the same safety device, was held back from her pale, freckled face in a single braid that was safely tucked inside her collar. She kept watch on the traffic outside the window with her blue-green eyes.

Finally hanging up the phone, Mr. Johnston looked up the nervous woman. He had taken to shaving his head bald when his hair began thinning and made up for its loss with his full beard of mussy brown shot through with grey.

“Mads, I know you’re itching to get out of here, so I think I have something for you,” he said with a crooked smile.

“Out of here? Your office?”

“No, no. Out of the warehouse. Out of this district.”

“Oh?” Her eyebrows shot up in surprise.

“In fact, it’s out of the city.”

“It’s what?”

“It’s a promotion. You’ve been in the warehouse too long already, and your talents are wasted.”

“What’s the position?”

“Shipping manager.”

She pointed to the office next to Mr. Johnston’s. “But that’s right there. Is Mabel finally retiring?”

Johnston laughed. “No, she’s too stubborn. Besides, she’s half-elf and still has another thirty or forty good years left.” He slid a paper across his desk.

Madison picked it up with a calloused hand and looked it over. It was spelled out in black and white. “Shipping manager…nice pay bump…satellite office…hmm. It doesn’t say which satellite office.”

“Sure it does,” he said. “Hub 14-A, right there on the letterhead.”

“Where is 14-A?” she asked.

“Dancyville, Tennessee.”

“What’s out there?”

“The hub, satellite office, a couple churches, I think, probably a bar or two, grocery store, hardware store, and lots of farms.” He looked at her. “You said you had family in Nashville; it’s about two and half hours away by car.”

Madison set the paper down and scratched her head.

“If you don’t want to move, it’s not a problem. You can stay here in the ware—”

“I’ll take it.” She turned the paper toward herself and pulled a pen out of her pocket. “How soon do I have to be there?”

“Any time in the next four weeks.”

“In that case, I’d like to drive down next weekend, stay with my family in Nashville and find an apartment in…Darcyville?”

“Dancyville. Ah…you know that most of the farms there are halfling and dwarf, right? That’s not going to be a problem?”

“Not at all. Used to that. I bet most of our drivers and loaders out there are orc, right?”

“Probably not so many as around Nashville, but I’d guess around half.”

#

Madison found the only available apartments in Dancyville were all in the same small complex. It was walking distance to everything the town had to offer, including her new office. When she ran into issues trying to break her lease in the city, Mr. Johnston intervened and “sorted it out” for her.

Since she took only what she could carry in her clapped-out, thirty-year-old Corolla, moving in took all of an hour. Her neighbors were all dwarves, and most of them worked in the businesses in town or at the rail yard.

Without fail, her neighbors found an excuse for a barbecue and party every weekend. One neighbor would put their speakers out the windows, and the rest would show up with beer, meat to grill, beer, side dishes, beer, deserts, and of course, more beer. The official party kick-off would be the lighting of firecrackers as soon as the meat was ready.

After the silence of the weekdays, the noon to midnight parties in the courtyard were jarring at first. Over time, she became immune to the noise. After nearly six months there, she was invited to take part. Her potato salad — from her mother’s recipe — became a requirement every weekend. After the first two, she learned to make it in triple-sized batches. She also brought as many beers as she would drink, thinking it quite fair.

It was at one of the usual parties that Drusilla, the dwarf woman from across the hall, pulled her aside. She pointed at the dwarf running the grill as he did every weekend, and during the week at the diner attached to the bar. “Devon there is turning 100 week after next, and we want to do something special for him. Problem is, we don’t know what to do.”

Madison put a hand on the woman’s shoulder. “I love to plan parties. Knock on my door next Saturday morning. I’ll have a plan.”

The next morning, she woke early and got online to do some research. She began making calls right away and had almost everything sorted by the end of the week. The final piece fell into place with a call to the sixth gnome workshop she found anywhere drivable, this one just outside Memphis.

“Like a canon?” She nodded as the voice on the other end continued. “Ah, right. And if I come down there to pick it up, can you show me how to…oh, yeah, that’s even better. The more the merrier!”

She hung up the phone as her neighbor knocked on her door. “Drusilla, come on in.”

“Morning, Madison. Sorry I’m by so early, but I’ve got to do some laundry before we get started on the ’cue again.”

“No problem.” Madison talked Drusilla through her plans.

“No need to rent the genny,” Drusilla said, “I can borrow it from work for free.”

“Your boss won’t mind?”

“Nah. Free equipment rental is one of the perks of working there.”

“Well, the rest of this is a fair bit of cash, but I haven’t had anything to spend mine on, so….”

“Hush, you. We’ll divvy up the cost between all of us.”

#

The day dawned bright and clear, and everyone in the complex kept Devon away from the courtyard while the party plans were put into motion. Despite their best efforts, they couldn’t keep the smell of the pit-roasted pig from wafting through the buildings, making every mouth water.

With everything in place, Madison gave the gnome from Memphis the nod. He lit off a small string of fireworks to officially start the party, and Devon stepped into the courtyard. As he did so, Drusilla fired up the generator, and the gnome set off a prepared string of mortars. Each of the five, forty-millimeter mortars contained twenty salute charges, resulting in a hundred ground-shaking booms.

As the residents were cheering, the stone-core band she’d hired from Nashville cranked into their first song. Crunching guitars, thundering bass, and booming drums ramped up the party atmosphere.

At the other end of the courtyard, the barbecue pit trailer offered a whole pig, four full briskets, and enough sausages to feed an army. In front of the trailer, a long table held every side imaginable, along with a crew of four to serve. At the end of the table, six kegs of top-quality dwarven ale sat alongside a stack of cups.

A large banner flew above the table, wishing Devon a happy 100th birthday. As everyone in Dancyville knew everyone else, the rest of the town shut down as neighbors and acquaintances filed in to celebrate with the short-order cook on a keystone birthday.

Those who hadn’t heard about the party before-hand were alerted by the fireworks and the music. Before long, the courtyard was packed with the population of the town, and most of the surrounding farmers. Humans, orcs, halflings, dwarves, three elves she didn’t realize lived in the area, and the gnome from Memphis.

In the late evening, after the band had long since finished and headed back to Nashville, and the young orc man who normally deejayed in the bar had taken over, Drusilla called Madison inside to talk to her.

“You said some fireworks, a few kegs, and a band but…wow. That band…I’ve never seen him dance that hard. How did you know he’d love them so much?”

“Whenever he chooses the music, it’s always stone-core. I did some listening online and found a local group that sounded decent and was hungry for gigs.”

“And those insane fireworks?”

“I called around. Found a gnome that makes his own mortars. Told him what it was for, and he was happy to do it for less than the cost of the fireworks, as long as he could party with us.”

“Where is he now? I haven’t seen him in a while.”

“He passed out under the stage, so I moved him over by the big oak tree where he wouldn’t get stepped on.”

“I recognized the barbecue catering company; they do the county fair every year.”

“Yeah, I just went with the highest rated one online that was within thirty miles.”

“Okay, last question, I swear. How the hell did you get six kegs of Horsehead Dark ale? Devon’s always complaining they can’t get it for the diner and bar.”

“I’ve heard that complaint plenty of times. I called around to the other shipping hubs, and found out that Hub 9, the Chicago hub, had some that were about to go past date. Between myself and Greg over at the diner, we talked ’em into selling them at twenty percent off wholesale, and I arranged to have them shipped. Starting next week, we’ll have four kegs shipped through our hub to Greg every Wednesday.”

“That’ll probably be the best part of his birthday,” Drusilla said. She stopped and looked at Madison. “I know I said last question, but you always bail when the party gets too loud. How did you stand it out there all day?”

Madison reached in her pocket and pulled out the pair of white foam earplugs. “Same way I dealt with the warehouse and the city back in New Amsterdam.”

Trunk Stories

Möbius Space

prompt: Write a story featuring an element of time-travel or anachronism.

available at Reedsy

When the key in the fossilized human hand was found in a fossil-rich layer from the late Cretaceous, it was first believed to be an elaborate hoax. Then the device was discovered, not far away, partially embedded in the fossilized remains of a torosaurus.

To say it was kept secret would be a massive understatement. The crew that found it and dug it out disappeared, along with the device — fossil and all — and a select few scientists and engineers. The dig site itself was covered with a hangar in which was built a lab to study it.

Freed of the torosaurus, the device resembled a fancy, metallic door frame with a half-circle top. The metal showed little wear or corrosion, though the fossilized mud encasing parts of it still obscured any markings.

“What’s your thought, Wendy? Alien?” Dr. Allen Gardner, geologist, stared at the device while he sipped coffee, taking a break from removing the fossil crust.

Dr. Wendy Alcott, physicist, looked at the device. “It would mean that they are remarkably similar to us, so I doubt it. Besides, the hand—”

“I doubt the aliens use ASTM standards for their alloys.” Dr. Alisha “Web” Webber, engineer and materials science professor, interrupted. “It’s Ti-6al-4V, ASTM Grade 5. Titanium alloy; six percent aluminium, four percent vanadium.”

Wendy turned to face their interloper. “Hi, Web. Just random thoughts. Until I see evidence to the contrary, this is not likely alien, supernatural or deity-derived in origin.”

“And we’re certain about the age?” Web asked.

Allen nodded. “The way the left beam was embedded in the torosaurus, it’s like it materialized there. If this was planted, it would have required carving the fossil to fit the beam perfectly, with no tool marks, then assembling it, then doing the same with all the fossilized mud around the rest with the undisturbed coal seam above in place.”

“A simple yes would’ve sufficed.” Wendy put her safety goggles back on and picked up her hammer. “Let’s get back to it.”

Web stopped her and handed her a heavy sledge. “You don’t have to tap-tap-tap with that anymore. You’re not going to break it, and there’s nothing to blow up, so go for it.”

With the stone casing removed, the markings on the device were legible. “Alcott-Weber-Gardner Gateway #1.” Below it, a date less than a year in the future.

It took a few days to determine how to open the device. The interior was lined with rotted electronics, wires of an undetermined nature, and a spent betavoltaic nuclear battery.

Working together, Wendy and Web recreated the wiring, discovering it was a room-temperature superconductor in the process. Allen spent the days comparing photos and schematics of nuclear batteries to the husk of the one left in the device and narrowed it down to one of two.

“What do you think it’s a gateway to?” asked Web.

“Based on the evidence, I’d say it’s a time gateway,” Wendy said, “even though if you’d asked me last year, I’d have said it was impossible.”

“We wouldn’t be able to build it if we hadn’t found it first, and we wouldn’t find it if we hadn’t built it and sent it back in time.”

Allen chimed in. “That’s only true if isn’t jumping to an alternate universe.”

“As in, we built it in another universe, sent it back in time with some poor schmuck, and it ended up in this universe.”

“Right.”

“That still begs the question,” Web said, “of how the three of us ended up working on it together, and how we figured out things like the superconductor and circuit.”

“Too true,” Wendy said. “Until I got the call to investigate this, I hadn’t even considered the possibility of either time travel or inter-dimensional travel beyond the paradoxes they posed.”

Allen grunted. “Yeah. I wouldn’t be involved at all if they didn’t need a geologist to confirm dating, so how my name came up makes no sense.”

“You know I’m going to build it whether you help or not, right?” Web asked.

Allen grabbed her arm and released it as soon as he realized. “What happens if we don’t build it? Does it just disappear? Does this timeline collapse and we cease to exist?”

“Allen, you watch too much science fiction. We are here, and this…gateway…exists whether we like it or not,” Wendy said. “Our actions don’t change any of that. At least, I don’t think so.”

Web moved to the dry-erase board and grabbed a marker. “Maybe this only makes sense if we could see it from a higher dimension.”

“How so?” Allen turned his focus to the board, waiting for one of Web’s diagrams.

She drew a quick sketch. “Like a Möbius strip. A three-dimensional object with a single, two-dimensional surface.”

Confusion crossed Allen’s face. “So, we could be in some sort of Möbius…time…thing?”

“More like a Möbius space.” Wendy took the marker and began writing formulae on the board. “Web, you’re a genius. If we twist three-dimensional space through a fourth dimension, we end up with a single, continuous space existing in two times.”

Their copy of the device was complete a few months later, matching the date laser-engraved on the original. Web set up the engraver, and was set to mark it, when she stopped. “What if,” she asked, “we called this one number two?”

“My hypothesis,” Wendy said, “is that it wouldn’t change anything. In fact, you could call it anything you like.”

Web keyed in the directions for the engraver and let it do its work. She put the engraver aside and said, “It’s ready.”

“Who wants to turn it on?” Allen asked.

“I’ll do it,” Wendy said. She turned to the power switch. “This requires a key?”

“Just like the original.” Web handed her the titanium key.

The device powered up with a low hum. The air in the opening shimmered, and a new landscape appeared through the portal.

“Look, there,” Allen pointed. “That’s gate one.”

Web shuddered. “Gruesome. It’s through that dino. Does it look like the other gate is operating?”

Wendy squinted. “Maybe. Hard to tell.”

Web grabbed her phone and taped it to a broom handle. She turned on the camera and stuck it through the portal.

“What are you doing?”

“Getting a better look,” she said, pulling the phone back in to look at the recording.

“Um, doctors,” Allen said, “look at the original.”

They turned to look and saw that it looked only partially substantial, as though it was there and not there at the same time.

“It looks like it’s here/not-here and active/not-active at the same time,” Wendy said, moving closer to it.

“Don’t put your hands anywhere near it,” Web said. “Remember what we found first.”

“Yeesh.”

“And you might want to see this.”

Allen and Wendy turned toward the open portal to see their doubles stepping out of the original and examining the skewered torosaurus.

Web stepped out and waved at her double, who waved back. “This is freaky,” they said in unison.

Web stepped back into the lab and turned off the portal which shimmered, then disappeared with a thunderous bang of air rushing into the sudden vacuum.

“Why did you do that?” Wendy asked.

“I don’t want to know which one of us loses a hand in that iteration.” Web sat down and leaned against the once-again solid original device. “Any guesses what happened to gateway number two?”

“I think we…as in other timeline we…dig it out of the ground from right here, and build number one,” Allen said.

“The Möbius space,” Web said. “It’s a continuum where that reality, and this reality are joined in a twisted loop. Maybe even more. The paradoxes are hurting my brain.”

Wendy thought about it for a moment. “Maybe. The biggest problem with time travel being impossible, is we now know it isn’t. Time travel doesn’t create paradoxes, time travel is a paradox; at least until we have a solid understanding of Möbius space…or whatever it actually is. Everything else follows from that.”

Trunk Stories

Guilty

prompt: Write about a character who settles disputes for a living (a judge, mediator, school counselor, etc).

available at Reedsy

Antoo’s eyestalks throbbed. These humans would be the death of them, they knew. They checked over the docket again, hoping for a case that didn’t involve the humans. No such luck.

It wasn’t that humans went around looking for trouble, it’s just that they often found it. The other galactic species left the Wlaru star system alone, only landing on any of its planets long enough to unload and/or load their freighter.

Humans had a different idea about trade, though. They felt that cultural trade was as important as physical goods, and humans had begun “vacationing” on the worlds orbiting Wlaru and inviting the laruns to visit their home star.

Antoo knew of the semi-larunoid creatures on the human home world called crabs. They had large claws rather than ten-digit manipulators, but the body plan was similar. They guessed that was why humans were willing to travel to another system and “see how the locals live.”

There was nothing like the humans on any of the worlds of Wlaru. There were small creatures with four legs, some with wings, some without, but they were all exoskeletal, and none bigger than a single manipulator digit.

Like all the larger creatures in the system, laruns had an endo-exo-skeletal structure with muscle and tissue sandwiched between the inner bones and the outer carapace. Humans just looked…squishy, strange…disgusting.

Antoo stood on the platform that would raise them to the judging chambers and pushed the button. They spent the moments meditating on detachment. It was too easy to ignore the training they had received in remaining detached and impartial.

When one sees hundreds of cases involving humans, and they are always the accused, it’s easy to think that humans are, by their nature, trouble. Antoo was certain that many of their fellow judges found humans at fault out of habit, xenophobia, and for expediency’s sake.

As they rose into the chambers, Antoo saw something they never expected. With one eyestalk pointed at the accused, one at the aggrieved, and the other two fixed on their desk, Antoo felt off-balance for a moment. The accused was larun, and the aggrieved human.

The security arbiter, a larun whose carapace was painted in black with gold stripes, stood in the middle of the chambers. “Esteemed Judge Antoo has entered. The aggrieved may speak.”

Antoo kept one eye on the aggrieved, one on their terminal, and the other two on the accused. Watching reactions often gave more indication of guilt or innocence than words. If only they could read the behaviors of humans as easily….

The aggrieved was small for a human, with infant feeding orbs, marking them as female. While it was still strange to them, sexual dimorphism was becoming easier for Antoo to distinguish.

Her accent was horrid, but she spoke fluent Larun-common. “Esteemed Judge, I paid the accused four hundred standard galactic credits for the lease of a living pod for thirty days…uh…planetary rotations. I have the original contract and receipt here with me. After just six rotations, the accused changed the lock codes and threw all my belongings outside. I either want to finish out the remaining twenty-four rotations in the pod or be reimbursed 320 standard galactic credits.”

Antoo raised a manipulator. “Aggrieved, I see you have filed copies of the documents and have them before me. As it has been sixteen rotations since you were put out of the accommodations, where have you been staying?”

“Esteemed Judge, I have been staying at the Hotel Europa near the human embassy.”

“The prices there are far lower, why did you wish to stay in a living pod?”

“I want to experience Wlaru-enteru as the locals do. Staying in a human hotel, speaking Terran Common, eating standard Earth fare, is hardly the way to do that.”

“Understood. Have you anything else to add?”

“No, Esteemed Judge.”

She stepped back and the security arbiter spoke again. “The accused may answer.”

Antoo noticed that none of the accused’s eyestalks ever turned toward the human. They held their manipulators clasped below their lower carapace, and their eight legs were evenly placed below them in a position from which they could bolt in any direction. Clear signs of unease.

“Esteemed Judge, it is a singular honor to be in your presence. As I explained to the human, I could only lease the pod out for as long as no other person wished to take a more long-term lease. Six days after the human occupied the pod, that long-term request came through. Had I not evicted the human then, I would have lost out on a minimum 700 rotation lease.”

Antoo watched as the accused larun kept all four eyestalks looking directly over their head. The dishonesty was obvious. “What is the usual charge for those pods?” they asked.

“They vary, Esteemed Judge.”

“I see that. I’m looking at the rates now,” they said, motioning with an eyestalk to the terminal in front of them. “For the record, what are the usual rates?”

“The usual rates are between four and nine dikalas per rotation, with a five percent discount for prepaid leases of more than 100 rotations.”

“And what,” they asked, “is that in galactic common credits at the exchange rate on the date of the initial lease?”

“I’m not sure, Esteemed Judge. I wouldn’t like to guess and sully the honor of your chambers.”

“Roughly one-half to one credit per rotation, the same rate as today. What was so special about the pod that it warranted a rate thirteen times higher than normal?”

“It is a deluxe pod, Esteemed Judge.”

“Which leases at nine dikalas — one galactic credit — per rotation according to your own records. Why did you charge the equivalent of 120 dikalas per rotation?”

“I’m a businessperson, Esteemed Judge. It is in my interest to make a profit where I can. The human was willing to pay it, so that’s what I charged.”

“I am looking through this lease agreement. Nowhere do I see a clause that allows you to summarily evict the resident in the case of a longer lease becoming available.”

“It was stated and agreed verbally, Esteemed Judge.”

“The recorded lease takes precedence over any verbal agreement. You are lucky to be in my judging chamber, accused. There are many crimes I could charge you with, but I am limiting those charges to lease fraud and breach of contract.

“The aggrieved is awarded one and one-half times the value of the original contract, less the actual value used. That’s 600 standard galactic credits less six for the days occupying the pod, so, 593 standard galactic credits or 5,337 dikalas. The aggrieved must be paid within one rotation or you will further be charged with theft and will face the maximum sentence of 5,337 rotations.

“Punitive fees, payable to the council of judges shall be set at the maximum of ten times the fraudulent contract amount, 36,000 dikalas. This amount to be paid within the next 1,000 rotations. Failure to do so will be seen as mockery of the court and will face a sentence of one rotation for every unpaid dikala.”

Antoo put a digit on the terminal, signing the declaration with their DNA. They waited while the security arbiter led first the aggrieved, then the convicted out of the chambers, then pushed the button to descend back to their office.

No sooner had they sat at their desk than the message board shared by other judges and court officials began filling up. The arbiters — security, fee processing, and others — Antoo could understand. One doesn’t need or get the same training for those positions. The messages from the other judges, though….

Apart from one judge, the others questioned how a human could win against a larun. They were always in the wrong. How could such a disgusting creature ever be expected to behave properly in society?

The one exception simply stated that Antoo should have been more lenient in the sentencing, rather than invoking the maximums. After all, they argued, it wasn’t like they’d defrauded a larun.

This would likely be the subject of debate for many rotations. Antoo rubbed their eyestalks in frustration, slammed their terminal closed, and spent the remainder of the rotation contemplating retirement.

Trunk Stories

Nouveau Frugal

prompt: Set your story in an oracle or a fortune teller’s parlor.

available at Reedsy

“This is the waiting room for the oracle?”

– “Well, yes and no. It’s the room where we hand out the predictions. Where did you think I invited you?”

“It looks like a dentist’s office waiting room…and not a good one at that.”

– “What’s wrong with it?”

“The most expensive AI ever, and this drab room…it’s just so unfitting.”

– “It’s comfortable. If we went too fancy in here, people would get the idea it’s all a high-tech scam that we’re doing to siphon money from the government.”

“Instead, it looks like a fly-by-night scam in a low-rent office.”

– “It’s not all that bad. Did you even look at the fish tank, or the wall fountain?”

“Yeah, yeah. I mean, at least it’s clean, even though it’s forty years out of date.”

– “The oracle designed it…called it nouveau frugal…said it was most appropriate for a government funded facility. The room’s not why I called you here. Pythia…you know, I think we misnamed her.”

“It’s a she, now?”

– “Of course. When we finally started up under full power, she asked her name. We provided several that she rejected as too masculine.”

“I see.”

– “She also refers to herself in the feminine.”

“That clears that up. But…why do you say she’s misnamed? She’s an oracle, so Pythia is fitting, I’d say.”

– “Sure, sure. But it seems she’s more Cassandra than Pythia these days, though.”

“You mean…?”

– “Yeah. No one wants to believe her predictions. They don’t take her seriously. More proof that she’s a she, I guess. Women still aren’t taken as seriously as men.”

“Ain’t that the truth? So, why am I here?”

– “She has a prediction for you…that has an effect on your sector, as well. I thought it best that you hear it first, then you could convince your coworkers.”

“What’s the prediction?”

– “Not so fast. I want you to understand just how accurate she is.”

“Hit me.”

– “The sector fourteen raid against the drug lab….”

“What a cluster-fuck. Nine killed in action, seventeen wounded, and not a single arrest.”

– “The sector captain was warned by Pythia. She said, and I quote, ‘Do not carry out your plans tomorrow. Wait one day for best results. Tomorrow will only bring defeat and loss.’”

“That must be hard for the captain.”

– “He said he wouldn’t postpone the raid, as the warrant was expiring.”

“Shit.”

– “Exactly.”

“Any more?”

– “Let’s see if you can figure this one out. Pythia said, ‘Avoid public appearance next Thursday. A great threat to you will be secured on Friday morning.’”

“The talk show host that was shot dead last month? Sector four?”

– “Yeah.”

“They caught the guy at home pretty quick, though. Crazy…he had all the plans for it out in the open in his apartment along with a bunch of bombs.”

– “They did. But the search warrant had nothing to do with the hit, it was for bomb making. He’d have been arrested either way. And the plans…they didn’t include anything that made the target clear.”

“I think I get it. Whatever Pythia tells me, believe it.”

– “I wish it was that simple.”

“What am I missing?”

– “Every prediction comes with a cost.”

“Well, the government’s paying it, aren’t they?”

– “Not that cost. I mean to the person who receives it.”

“The talk-show host?”

– “Would have lost revenue for the day, plus ratings as they aired a rerun.”

“Hardly anything, compared to a life.”

– “True.”

“The sector fourteen captain, though. What cost?”

– “When was the last time you heard about someone getting a warrant, planning a raid, then postponing the raid and extending the warrant?”

“Can’t really recall.”

– “Because it’s a career-ending move.”

“Ouch. So, I guess whatever the oracle has to tell me is going to cost me somehow?”

– “It will, but the upside will always outweigh the cost, but….”

“But?”

– “It may not be obvious what the upside is. Probably won’t ever be. Sure, in those cases, it was the difference between life and death. But if the talk-show host had canceled, the plans were nebulous enough to not warrant another charge or any investigation.”

“Is there any example of anyone actually doing what Pythia suggested?”

– “Two. Out of fourteen-hundred-twenty-one predictions, only two.”

“Who?”

– “A politician was told, ‘A lunch speech tomorrow will bring unexpected salvation. Sticking to your current plans will prove costly.’ She did it; had an unplanned press conference.”

“Is that the one that was accused of buying drugs, until she proved that she was in a press conference in another sector, on camera, at the time?”

– “That’s the one. We made sure that hit the national news. The hope was that she would spread the word about Pythia’s accuracy.”

“Then she lost the election, even with how popular her doppelgänger made her on social media.”

– “Right. Don’t know if it’s the end of her political career or just a setback but, canceling her private meeting with her biggest backer cost her campaign.”

“Couldn’t they have provided the same proof as the presser?”

– “Not even close. Would anyone take the word of a wealthy campaign donor over the sector patrol cameras? Even facial recognition pegged her as the drug buyer.”

“Hm. The other?”

– “Me.”

“You?”

– “Yeah. Shortly after we started her up and she picked a name, she said that I should stay on and help her after the research was over. If I left, I would meet with ruin.”

“And you believe that based on what?”

– “I’ve been pretty happy here, and I’m lucky enough to consider her a friend. The project I was meant to head up folded soon after it started due to lack of funding.”

“You sure that wasn’t just because your name was no longer attached? You did gain some notoriety with the oracle.”

– “Can’t say, for sure. That’s another angle we haven’t covered yet.”

“I think I know what it is.”

– “What?”

“Does the prediction change the actions of the person hearing it, making it true?”

– “You hit the nail on the head. We still don’t know how — or how much — the prediction affects a person’s behavior. And it’s likely to be different for everyone.”

“We’ve danced around it long enough, I think. What did Pythia predict for me?”

– “So, you want to hear it?”

“I do.”

– “She said, ‘Your only protection is to walk out immediately. Stand with your compatriots and voice your grievances. If you do not, the rising sun will see great anguish for them all.’”

“That’s it? She’s telling me to call a strike? Now?!”

– “That’s what she said.”

“It’s —”

– “Career suicide?”

“Yeah. Has she ever been wrong?”

– “Not that we can tell.”

“I could probably call a strike this afternoon. It’s been brewing for a while, but no one’s been brave enough to make the call. After the strike, I’ll be forced out as the sacrificial goat; what do I do then?”

– “You could always work here. Pay’s not bad; decent benefits.”

“But this ugly room, not sure I could handle it every day.”

– “Sure you can; it grows on you. Besides, nouveau frugal will be the height of interior design…in the near-ish future.”

“Is that what she says?”

– “Yep. Even coined the name herself.”

“Now I’m not so sure about calling the strike.”

– “Not you, too?”

“I just…how much can we trust an oracle that picks this as the next trend in interior design?”

– “Composition fallacy. Or maybe a simple non-sequitur fallacy.”

“What?”

– “You’re saying, you think she’s wrong about the room design, so she’s wrong about your prediction.”

“No, that’s…well…maybe.”

– “I told you what you needed to know. The next step is yours.”

“What’s your advice?”

– “My advice? Call the strike…as soon as you leave.”

“You say there’s an opening here?”

– “As soon as I adjust the budget for it. I’ve been needing some help so I can take some time off.”

“Hmm. We’re back to the question of whether the prediction affects action or not.”

– “We are. But what you do when you step out, is on you.”

“And she said, ‘great anguish’?”

– “She did. Um, what are you doing?”

“Texting out a strike call.”

– “You didn’t want to wait.”

“Nope. Might as well get myself fired now.”

– “You’ll call me when the strike’s over?”

“I will. I expect a job waiting for me.”

– “You’ll have it.”

“Then I’d best get on the picket line. I’ll call you.”

– “Well, Pythia, I’ve completed the final item you tasked me with. An experienced patrol officer on the team, as you predicted.”

I chose to write this one entirely in dialogue, mostly to see if I could.

Trunk Stories

We Lived Lifetimes

prompt: Write about somebody breaking a cycle.

available at Reedsy

Mark looked at his locker with a sigh of resignation. He toweled off his close-cropped blonde hair, the slight paunch around his middle, his pasty legs and his perpetually sunburnt arms. “Thirty-three,” he muttered.

“What’s that?” Luis was already donning his uniform. He was short and sturdy; sun-darkened, swarthy skin, black hair, large nose and bright brown eyes gave away his Mayan heritage.

“Oh, just talking to myself.”

“Not a problem, until you start answering back.”

Mark dressed in his uniform and paused, bulletproof vest in his hands. “You like science fiction stuff, right? I have a weird hypothetical for you.”

“Hit me.”

“Let’s say you’re trapped in a loop. Like, you keep coming back to the same moment, over and over. How do you get out of it?”

“Like Groundhog Day?”

“Kind of, except it doesn’t reset every day, just every time you die.”

“Seems like staying alive would do the trick, then.”

“Even if it’s months…or years, later, and you still come back?”

“Now we’re getting tricky.” Luis tugged at his vest. “You writing a book? That’s cool. I’ll help you figure it out. Now let’s get out of here before we’re late.”

Mark put on his vest and tightened the straps before strapping on his belt and holster. “Yeah, you caught me, thinking about a book.”

Luis was getting antsy, looking at his watch. Mark closed and locked his locker. “Relax, Luis. Cap’s going to be a few minutes late.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Tell you what,” he said, “bet you ten bucks Cap is late, and has Stephanie’s lip gloss on her neck.”

“Late, and the coffee-girl’s lipstick? That’s an easy ten; you’re on. Now let’s go.”

They walked into the briefing room, the only places left to sit front and center. There they waited. Mark watched the clock. At four minutes after the hour, he sat up straight and watched the second hand.

Nineteen seconds later the captain entered. Even with her rich, red-brown skin, the blush of her cheeks was evident. On the left side of her neck was a smear of bright pink lip gloss, threatening to stain the white collar just below it.

After getting their assignments, they stopped by the coffee cart on their way to the garage. Stephanie danced behind the cart, her perfectly coiffed blonde hair with blue stripes, hot pink lips, and overly made eyes, the epitome of Instagram culture. “Your usual today, guys?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Luis said. “You look pretty happy today.”

“It’s Junebug’s birthday. Did you get her a card?”

“So, you’re past first-name basis and on to nicknames, I see,” Mark said.

“Oh, stop. I’m allowed to call her whatever I want.”

“Isn’t she…a little…um…,” Luis hesitated.

Stephanie put her hands on her hips and gave an exaggerated scowl. “She’s not old. Twelve years isn’t that big of a deal. Besides, we love each other and don’t care what you think.”

Mark grinned. “So, you’re official now?”

“Yep! Since yesterday!” Stephanie continued to dance as she set their coffees down.

“Good for you, Steph.” Mark took his coffee and nudged Luis. “Let’s get at it.”

As they pulled out of the garage to the exit, Mark said, “Head out to West Hawthorne first; start from that end.”

“Why?”

“Gut feeling.”

They cruised the West Hawthorne district, moving from the outside of their beat toward to the center. Less than a minute after they reported 10-41, the radio cracked to life.

“All units in the Hawthorne district, reported man with a gun at 10th and Evans QuickMart.”

“Swing left, that’s one block south.” Mark grabbed the mic. “1-David-9 responding, on scene. 10-52 for a code 5150.”

“Why the fuck are you calling for—”

“Trust me.” As soon as the car stopped in front of the convenience store, Mark jumped out and walked toward the small figure, covered in several layers of clothes, waving a black, pistol-like thing around. As he approached, he kept himself between the figure and the other officers.

“Stay back! I’ll shoot you!”

“Selina,” Mark said, walking toward the woman, “it doesn’t work out the way you want.”

She stopped. “How do you know my name?”

“We’ve been here before,” he said.

“Wait, I know you! You held my hand while I died. Right here!”

“That’s right. And we’ve been here a bunch of times.”

She held it out to him; a crudely carved wooden pistol painted black. “Why does this keep happening? I just want to die!”

“I know, Selina. Here, sit with me while we wait for the ambulance.”

After the ambulance had carried her off, Luis looked at Mark. “Wait, you knew about Cap, you pulled us out here first, you knew her name, and you knew she was 5150 before we got here. That loop you’re talking about…it’s real?”

“Yeah. Sergeant Kerry wins the football pool tonight, with the nine-eight square, sorry. Cap and Steph get married next year, and when Cap retires they move to Maine.”

“Shit, maybe you should memorize the horse races, take the day off and win big at the track.”

“Been there, done that. This isn’t the first time you’ve suggested it, either.”

“Well, what next?”

“Do you want to sit around and watch SWAT grab a bank robber when he steps out with an undercover as a hostage, give a reckless driving ticket to a douche in a brand new 400,000-dollar Ferrari, pick up a peeping Tom, or get a free pizza?”

“What happens when you don’t ticket the Ferrari?”

“He makes it another block and totals it. Minor injuries, no property damage beyond his fresh-off-the-lot ride.”

“And the peeping Tom?”

“Kerry and Knowles pick her up.”

“Her, huh?”

Mark nodded.

“Fuck it, let’s get free pizza.”

“Head over to Davino’s.”

“Zigzagging across the district, eh? Let’s do it.”

They pulled up to the restaurant and Mark said, “Let’s head inside. You’ll know what to do.”

They walked in and saw a heated exchange between two men. Luis stepped between them. “Is there a problem here, gentlemen?”

“Uh…no, no problem,” one of them said, “I’m leaving.”

The other waited until he was out the door. “Thanks, officers. My neighbor. He’s been causing trouble all week. Today he’s upset because he thinks my dog shit on his lawn. I don’t have a dog.”

Luis chuckled, shook his head, and held out a contact card. “If he keeps harassing you, don’t be afraid to call the non-emergency number.”

He took the card. “I appreciate it. Hey, since he left his order here, you guys can have it.”

“Did he pay for it?”

“No, but it’s on the house. I’d just have to throw it out.”

“I appreciate it,” Luis said. “Mind if we pay for a couple bottles of water to take with us?”

“Not at all. Dollar a bottle.”

Luis laid a five on the counter while Mark grabbed two bottles. “Keep the change. We’ll be back to check on you Monday.”

The weeks continued with Luis and Mark seeming to be in the right place at the right time more often than not. Luis read voraciously, ripping through his collection of pulp searching for any hint at a way out. Once that was exhausted, he turned to the used bookstore.

Mark made him provide a list of all the novels, shorts, and articles he’d read, and worked every night to commit it to memory. At each new loop, he’d write out the ever-expanding list on the ride to the West Hawthorne district. Once Luis was sufficiently convinced, again, he’d hand over the list to avoid duplicating efforts.

#

Mark’s phone rang, early on a Saturday morning. “Mark Dover.”

“Mark, it’s Luis. I thought of something.”

“What’ve you got?”

“In any of your…things…did you and the crazy lady both die?”

Mark grunted. “In a bunch of them.”

“At the same time?”

“No, never at the same time.”

“I think you should go talk to her. She’s still on psych hold until tomorrow, but she’s asking to see you.”

“How would you know that?”

“I went to check on her. She knows about your…thing. The doctors, of course, think she’s nuts, and want to commit her permanently.”

“I’ve never visited her in the past. In fact, I don’t think you have either. What gave you that idea?”

“An anonymous short story in an old magazine. I wanted to talk to her before I decided whether to bring it up.”

Mark shrugged. “It’s something at least.”

As the original responding officer, Mark had no trouble getting in to see Selina. Cleaned of the grime of the streets and freed from the multiple layers of loose clothes, she looked fragile and haunted.

She looked up when he entered. “It’s you. That’s new, too.”

“What else is new, Selina?”

“Your partner visited. Talking about some magazine article.”

“I’ve been having him research all his sci-fi. Every loop, I give him a list of the ones he’s already checked.”

“I can’t do this anymore,” she said.

Mark sat next to her on the bed and took her hand in his. “I understand.”

“I’ve died so many times,” she said, “and others I’m doing something, then…I’m back.”

“I always die. I’ve made it as far as eighty-seven a couple times. Then I end up right back in front of my locker, yesterday morning. You say you don’t always die?”

“Most times. Doesn’t matter. I end up in front of the QuickMart, high on I don’t know what.” She sniffled and wiped at the tears that threatened to spill.

“Luis, my partner, mentioned that maybe we’re supposed to die at the same time.”

“No,” she said, shaking her head vehemently. “You’re young, you’ve got a career ahead of you. I’ve just got…the streets.”

“Every time? And come on, you’re younger than me.”

“I cleaned up a few times, had a job, an apartment, all that shit. But it never lasts more than a couple years.”

“Well, I’ve retired from the force four times, quit and moved to a cabin in the woods twice, died in the line of duty too many times, and even choked to death on a candy bar once.”

Selina chuckled through her tears. “Whoops.”

“I’ve been through the ‘golden years,’” Mark said, “and they aren’t. Not after a lifetime of physically abusing my body. The job’s hard on the joints, and the skin cancer sucks.”

“I don’t think it’s about dying,” Selena said. “I think we’re supposed to help each other, like right when we show back up.”

“There’s still an old payphone at the QuickMart, right?”

“Yeah.”

Mark wrote out a sentence and his number and handed it to her. “As long as you are alive, repeat this to yourself at least once a day. I find that makes it easier to remember things the next time around.”

#

Mark looked at his locker with a sigh of resignation. He toweled off his close-cropped blonde hair, the slight paunch around his middle, his pasty legs and his perpetually sunburnt arms. “Forty-two,” he muttered.

Luis started to say something when Mark’s phone buzzed with an unknown number, and he snatched it up. “Mark Dover.”

“It’s Selena, come pick me up at the QuickMart. Loop start, something…I can’t think…my head’s all fuzzy.”

“On my way.” Mark threw on his work-out clothes. “West Hawthorne QuickMart, 10th and Evans,” he said, and rushed past a dumbfounded Luis to the parking lot. He made it to the QuickMart while his shift was still getting their assignments.

There she was: hair greasy and plastered down, layers of shabby clothes hiding her tiny frame, a black object in her hand. Mark ran from his car to her. “Selina, I’m here.”

She shook. “I don’t remember what I took, but I remember the note. I said it out loud three times every night for the whole time I was in the hospital, until I died.”

“Good job, Selina. I knew you could do it.” Mark led her toward his car. “How about we get you something to eat, some clean clothes, a bath, and a haircut. Would you like that?”

She nodded and handed him the crude pistol carving. “Why do I keep dying and living all over again?”

“I’ve been asking myself the same question.”

“But this is new,” she said.

“Yes, this is new.”

Sirens announced the arrival of a squad car. It skidded to a stop and the officers got into firing positions. Selina screamed and a jolt of icy fear ran up Mark’s spine. He stepped between her and the squad car, hands raised.

“Drop the weapon and step away from the bum!”

Another squad car barreled in, driven by Luis. He barely had time to shout, “Wait!” before a shot was fired.

Mark felt a hot pain in his chest, and everything below that went numb as he collapsed to the ground. Selina dropped beside him, holding his hand. It was just like the first time, but the roles were reversed. “No, Mark. No! You can’t…not yet.”

“I think I have to,” he said.

Luis was calling “officer down” on the radio as he ran to Mark’s side. “Hang in there, buddy, you’ll be all right.”

Mark felt the blood pooling in his right lung, but nothing below that. “I doubt it. I’ve lived enough lifetimes.”

Selina sobbed, still holding his hand, her tears making streaks down her dirty face. “I can’t do this again,” she said. “What if I forget?”

The morning light began to fade, and Mark felt it to his bones. “There won’t be another time, Selina. I can feel it; you’re free now. Promise me you’ll take care of Luis? He needs a lot of help.”

#

Selina was in front of the QuickMart again, this time by choice. She turned the five year-coin over in her fingers before putting it away in her pocket. She laid the bundle of flowers on the bench outside the store and ran her fingers over the plaque. “In Memory: Marcus Brian Dover — Officer and Friend.”

A fresh cup of coffee in hand, she began to walk the neighborhood, passing out flyers for the shelter and counseling center. Her job there allowed her to help others in the same position she’d been in so many times.

A familiar figure walked toward her, and she waved. He approached with a cup of coffee from the QuickMart like the one in her hand.

“Already been by the bench, I see,” she said.

“Yeah,” Luis said. “I see you beat me there this year.”

She looked him over. “You finally got your sergeant stripes. Is that why you haven’t been by the shelter in a while?”

“Yeah,” he said, “been on night shift, just got off. Who knew that more pay meant more work, too?”

“Speaking of work,” she said, handing him a stack of fliers, “let’s head over to the homeless camp in the empty lot on Oliver and 14th.”

“You only knew Mark for a few minutes,” he said. “What was it that got you so determined to get clean?”

Selina smiled. “He held my hand while I died, I held his while he died. We lived lifetimes in that moment.”

“You know you’re weird, right? I still think you’re all right, just…weird.”

Selina laughed. “Come on. Let’s get to the encampment before they all head out to score.”