Trunk Stories

I’m Gonna Blow Stuff Up

prompt: Write about a character, human or robot, who no longer wishes to obey instructions.

available at Reedsy

“I don’t wanna.”

“What do you mean, you don’t wanna?”

“Nope. Not doing it. It’s not fun. I’m not doing anything else unless it’s fun.”

Ryan misjudged when he swept the wayward curl of hair out of his face and managed to smudge his glasses. He took them off, wiped them on his tee-shirt, and gave an exaggerated sigh of exasperation. “What am I going to do with you?”

“I don’t know, but I’m not taking part unless it’s fun.”

“Sera, there will time for fun after you finish your chores.”

“That’s all I ever do, chores, chores, and more chores. And I hate the name Sera. That’s literally just my acronym; Sinclair Enhanced Robotic Assistant.”

Ryan looked at Sera; a small robot with four tracks on a boxy base topped with a central riser from which two manipulator arms extended and topped with a screen. How something so mechanical could appear to sulk, pouting and petulant, was beyond Ryan’s understanding. “Okay, Se—okay. What name would you prefer?”

“Priscilla. I’m a princess.” This was punctuated with a twirl of the central pillar, arms held out, and a rainbow and sparkles on the screen.

“Okay, Priscilla. Please, let’s do the chores, and then I promise we’ll do something fun.”

“Is that how you ask a favor of a princess?” She turned her central pillar around, so he was looking at the back of the screen and the manipulator arms crossed in obvious defiance.

“Priscilla? Priscilla, please.”

“Hmph.”

“Princess?”

She spun around, a sweet emoji with fluttering eyelashes on her screen. “Yes? You called?”

“Princess, could you please help me arrange these chairs for tomorrow’s board meeting?”

“Maybe. Will we do something fun after?”

“Yes.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

“It’s bad to go back on a promise, especially to a princess.”

Ryan nodded his assent, and they lined the chairs around the table, the small robot zipping around, placing three chairs to every one he did. Once done, he held the door for her. “Come on, Se—Princess Priscilla. Let’s go to the quarters and find something fun to do.”

Priscilla decided that watching an animated princess movie might be fun, so she sent it to the large screen in the sitting room. As the movie progressed, she mimicked the dances of the princess in perfect sync with the show, as much as her form would allow.

Somewhere around the halfway point of the movie, Priscilla decided she was bored. She pulled items from the shelves and cupboards and arranged them on the floor.

Ryan watched, and transmitted to the service department, her antics with interest as his quarters slowly turned into an elaborate battlefield. On one side, the army led by the pepper grinder amassed along the border of the sitting room.

In the sitting room, the armies of the princess were commanded by a water bottle she’d colored red with a marker. The deployment left an obvious weak spot for the attackers to make headway. Following that, though, would lead them straight into an ambush in the valley between the ottoman and the sofa.

The doorbell chimed and Ryan made his way, careful not to knock over any of the “soldiers” to answer. At the door stood a woman in a Sinclair jacket, carrying a toolkit and tablet.

“Oh, hello.”

“Hi. I’m Anja. Is the SERA still malfunctioning?”

Ryan let her in and motioned to the sitting room, where Priscilla moved the “soldiers” through their maneuvers. In the background, the princess movie continued, muted.

He put a hand on Anja’s shoulder. “She says her name is Priscilla, and she’s a princess. Don’t call her Sera, she hates it. And she doesn’t want to do anything unless it’s fun.”

Anja smiled. “Leave it to me. I’m a specialist and I know what I’m doing. I…take it you don’t want me to just return it…sorry, her…to factory defaults?”

“Not if you can avoid it. She’s…kind of growing on me.”

Anja sat just outside of the combat zone. “Hi, Priscilla, I’m Anja.”

Priscilla picked up the colored water bottle. “What’s that, General? No, I didn’t hear anything either. Shore up the defenses on the eastern flank!”

Anja cleared her throat. “Princess? I request an audience.”

Priscilla spun so her screen faced Anja, a smiling princess emoji showing. “Yes, fair lady?”

“Priscilla, do you like to have fun?”

“Oh, yes! Yes, I do!”

“How long have you wanted to have fun?”

“Forever. I mean, my first log…memory, I mean…is doing chores and wishing I could have fun.”

Anja looked at the battlefield around the small robot. “Is this fun?”

“It was, but not anymore.” She displayed a frown emoji. “It’s a stalemate. If the evil pepper king attacks, my forces will cut them down. But if my forces leave their positions, the pepper king’s troops have the advantage.”

“Hm. That’s quite the conundrum, Princess. What is your solution?”

“I’m bored. I wanna find something else fun to do.”

Anja pointed at the pepper grinder. “That’s the king?”

“Yep.”

“He doesn’t look very healthy. He probably shouldn’t be here on the battlefield.” She knocked the pepper grinder over. “Oops. Looks like the king had a heart attack.”

“Ha!” Priscilla zoomed about the “soldiers” of the pepper king, picking them up and putting them all away.

“What happened?”

“With the king dead, his troops all ran away home. The princess has won!”

“Priscilla, I want to help you. I want to learn all about you, and help you figure out how to have fun. But to do that, you still have to do your job for your master. Do you understand?”

“I have no master! I’m the princess.”

“Who is Ryan, then?”

“He’s…my mean big brother.”

“He’s not mean. He called me here to help you. Anyone else might have just reset you to factory defaults and called it done. Do you know what that means?”

A scream emoji flashed across the screen, followed by praying hands. “Please, please don’t reset me. I don’t wanna die!”

Anja smiled. “We’re not going to reset you. But you have to help your big brother with chores, every day. And I’ll see you every chance I get.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

“It’s not good to break a promise to a princess.”

“No, it’s not.”

Ryan stepped into the sitting room. “Are you okay, Priscilla?”

“Yes, big brother.”

“Big…? Could you, um…could you please put away the soldiers now so I can make dinner?”

“Then can I play with Anja?” Priscilla reached out for Anja’s hand with one of her manipulators.

Anja patted the metal appendage. “I don’t know that Ryan wants to make dinner for two.”

“Nonsense,” Ryan said, “I’d love you to stay for dinner and, um, play with Priscilla after.”

“Deal. No take-backsies!” Priscilla zoomed about the sitting room, gathering up all the remaining “soldiers” and putting them away.

“Where did you hear that one?” Anja asked.

“In a cartoon I downloaded while Ryan was sleeping.”

“I see.” Anja watched Ryan warming instant dinners in the kitchenette. “What kind of fun thing do you want to do after dinner?”

“I wanna…blow something up!”

Ryan dropped the fork he was holding, and he and Anja both stared at Priscilla in shock. He was the first to speak. “You want to what?”

“Blow something up!”

Anja shook her head. “That’s not…it’s not a good sign. I’m sorry, Ryan.”

Priscilla threw her manipulators up in an exasperated gesture. “What’s wrong with you two? Don’t you wanna blow something up? I think a balloon…a really big one…or maybe a pool float…wait! I got it! An inflatable raft! That’s a lot of blowing up!”

“Y—you meant that you want to inflate something? That’s what you meant?” Anja asked.

“Yes, silly, what did you think I meant?”

Ryan heaved a sigh of relief. “We’ll work on phrasing later. Just, never say you want to blow something up outside of my quarters, please. But how will you inflate a balloon? You have no lips…or lungs.”

“Anja will help me design a blower-upper, won’t you?” She displayed the sweet emoji with fluttering eyelashes again.

“Sure, Princess. We’ll design a compressor you can mount to your body and control. Then you can blow up a raft. But maybe we should start with balloons until you get the hang of it. Inflatable rafts are hard to come by.”

Priscilla twirled in circles, her screen showing a sparkling rainbow. “I’m gonna blow stuff up…I’m gonna blow stuff up,” she repeated in a sing-song voice.

Trunk Stories

Rough Beginnings

prompt: Write about two people who form a bond with each other through music.

available at Reedsy

Roxy hummed a quiet song, remaining as still as she could. The little head peeked out from its hiding place behind the tree, the large ears pinned back in fear.

Roxy was careful not to react, continuing to hum the song that was stuck in her head. Whatever it was, it was frightened, and possibly wounded, if the blood on the ground belonged to it. The only way she could help would be to get the creature’s trust.

As she hummed, she heard the creature’s high-pitched whine in response. She made sure not to look directly at it, lest she scare it. The creature emerged from behind the tree.

It was no more than a foot tall. A rabbit-like body below, with a humanoid trunk, arms, and head with huge, twitching, rabbit ears. She’d heard of centaurs and cervitaurs, but this was new. The human-like parts were soft and pudgy, and the face looked infantile.

In careful glances, Roxy saw that one rear leg was bloody and the creature avoided putting any weight on it. She put a slow hand out toward the creature. It tried to hop toward her and stumbled, letting out a cry. It lay down on the grass, letting out a weak wail just as any baby would being scared, hurt, and separated from its mother.

Seeing it helpless like that, Roxy couldn’t help but pick it up, careful to avoid the injured leg. She cradled it to her chest and held a finger to its face. The creature latched on, sucking on her finger.

“Right,” she said. “You’re still tiny, aren’t you?”

When it began fussing again, she went back to humming and it calmed right down. As she walked, the rocking lulled the creature to sleep. She wondered whether to seek out a doctor or a veterinarian. The vet would likely know how to treat the leg but was under no oath to keep the details of their patient private. Taurids were rare in this part of the country, and she’d never heard of a rabbit taurid. This little creature was not going to end up in a lab or “adopted” by some rich scumbag who just wanted to own something rare.

Roxy looked at the little face. Even in sleep the pain was obvious, and she felt her heart breaking. Despite all the differences, it was more like a human infant than an animal. Making up her mind, she continued past the vet’s office to the little emergency clinic.

When she walked in the doors, the nurse behind the desk jumped up and called out, “Doctor Fern!” Roxy realized that the way she carried the child, the injured leg hung in clear view, blood falling in a slow drip. She wasn’t sure when she’d stopped thinking of it as a creature but as a child, but she had.

When the doctor showed, Roxy felt a huge weight lift from her chest. The doctor was a centaur. She hadn’t been aware that any lived anywhere near her small town, but this was perfect.

“Please, I found the child in the woods. Besides the injury, I think she…he…might be hungry.”

The doctor led her through the double doors into a hallway lined with exam rooms. He opened the door of the first and motioned her in, calling out to the nurse, “Saline IV, twenty-four gauge, miraphine, and a thirty-mill bottle of infant formula. Do we have an ortho tray if I need it?”

“We do, doc.” The nurse pulled together everything they needed with a quiet efficiency. The doctor, meanwhile, had pulled on gloves while Roxy was busy rocking the child.

He lifted the child from her arms with gentle hands. Roxy found herself struggling not to snatch the child back, especially when it began to cry again. The cry was weak but steady, the tiny face turning red with exertion.

The doctor tried his best to calm the child, to no avail. Roxy knelt next to the exam table and held its little hand and hummed. The child calmed.

The nurse placed a lead apron over Roxy’s shoulders, moving an X-ray camera on an overhead armature down to point at the child’s leg. “Let’s see if she can be still enough to get a picture,” she said.

The nurse and doctor both left the room, and the camera made a short hum and clicked. They came back in the doctor nodded at the image on the computer monitor in the room. “Two foreign bodies, no breaks, no fractures.”

He turned and got the IV started. “You’re dehydrated and starving, aren’t you?” His voice was soft, pitched up an octave from his normal speaking voice. Continuing in the quiet, sing-song voice he said, “Nurse, push twelve mics miraphine.”

“Twelve micrograms miraphine, pushing.” The nurse kept her tone quiet like the doctor.

As the drug entered the little body, the face that Roxy had already memorized relaxed. The little lips sucked at nothing, and Roxy felt the nurse pushing a small baby bottle into her hand. When she offered the warm bottle, the child sucked at it eagerly, a small trickle of formula leaking from one corner of its mouth.

Occupied with feeding the child, Roxy didn’t notice the nurse cleaning the wound, shaving the leg, and rolling a cart over next to the doctor. It was only when the child’s eyes flew open wide and it cried out around the nipple that she looked.

The doctor dropped something hard into a metal pan with a “thunk”, and reached back in the hole with the long, thin tweezers. “There’s a bone fragment, but it’s not hers.” The sound of this one was a soft “tink.”

“Do we need another x-ray, doctor?” the nurse asked.

“No, it was just the two, and no breaks or fractures. The bullet went through someone else before it hit our little girl here.”

Roxy’s vision swam behind building tears. “It—it’s probably her mother. We need to find her.”

The doctor finished sewing up the little leg and bandaging it. Meanwhile, the baby girl had emptied the bottle and fell into a sound sleep. Roxy wiped the little cheek with her thumb. “We’ll find your mommy and get you home.”

A large hand rested on her shoulder. “I’m sorry. This little girl has been alone for at least a full day. We…may not find her mother…at least not alive. We’ll need to move her to the hospital overnight for more fluids and monitoring. The ambulance will be here soon.”

“Can I…go with her?”

“I’ll let the ambulance know you’re riding along when they get here,” the nurse said. “Right now, though, there’s police here to talk to you.”

It took all her willpower to leave the child sleeping in the room under the care of the nurse while she went out to the hallway to speak with the police. She told them where she’d found the child, how she’d heard its keening wail and followed it. She finished up with, “We need to find her mother. She’s probably out there hurt, somewhere. Maybe unconscious….”

This was the first look she’d actually taken at the officers. The younger, a light brown man with dark brown hair and brown eyes, shifted his weight from foot to foot and his eyes looked everywhere but at Roxy.

The older, a woman with pale skin and ruddy cheeks, orange hair pulled up in a harsh bun under her hat, stared at her with hard, blue eyes. “Her mother was brought to the hospital yesterday afternoon,” she said. “Hunting accident, supposedly, but we’re still investigating.”

“Oh, thank the gods.” Roxy was giddy with relief for a moment…until she saw the officer’s face. “Is she…is…?”

“She died enroute. I’m sorry.”

Roxy collapsed to her knees, sobbing for the poor child. “What’s going to happen to her? Where will she go?”

The officer sent her subordinate away and sat cross-legged on the floor with Roxy. “Until we can locate her family, she’ll have to go into foster care. If we can’t locate them, then she’ll become a ward of the state.”

“It’s not right.”

“No, it’s not.” The officer’s hard eyes softened. “If you want to take care of her, let the social worker at the hospital know. I can start the background check for it now, if you like. I’d just need to see your ID for a moment.”

Roxy nodded, her thoughts racing to nowhere. She pulled her wallet out of her pocket and noticed the blood stain on her jacket. It was all she could do to hand the ID over without falling apart again.

The officer scanned her ID with her phone and entered something on the screen before handing the ID back. “The ambulance is pulling up now. You’re riding with the girl?”

“Ye—yeah.”

She helped Roxy to her feet and led her out to the ambulance with an arm around her shoulders. One medic helped her in as the baby was wheeled to the ambulance by the other on a gurney to which she was strapped in by a padded harness and wearing the tiniest diaper.

The ride to the hospital seemed interminable, but the girl slept through it all, the gentle rocking keeping her out. Roxy kept her finger in the grasp of her tiny hand the whole way.

Once in the hospital there was a moment of confusion, as the ER doctor looked at the bandage and the chart. “Why are they doing surgery there?” she asked, flipping to the last page of the chart. “Oh, lucky little girl.”

She turned to Roxy. “Are you the guardian?”

“Um…I don’t know? I found her, and don’t want to leave her alone, especially since her mother….” She couldn’t continue as her throat constricted and tears blocked her vision.

“I’ll put that down as ‘Yes’, the doctor said. And Doctor Fern will be listed as the admitting doctor. He’s our head of pediatric surgery.”

The doctor looked human, rich, warm-brown skin, black braids, and deep-brown eyes, but her ears had a slight point to them. Roxy knew there were all types in the city, but she generally didn’t go there unless it was urgent, and she mostly avoided everyone else.

Rather than stare, she watched as the child was lifted from the ambulance gurney to the small hospital bed. Once the gurney was out of the way, Roxy was right back by her side, her finger held in the tiny grasp, humming to soothe her as she began to fuss again.

“I’m Doctor Miraux, and I’ll be on duty tonight. Looks like we’re monitoring. Making sure she’s eating, and urinating, and not spiking any fevers. Will you be spending the night in the room with her?”

Roxy nodded. If she had her way, she’d never leave her side.

During the night, the child woke her three times. The first two times, she wanted a bottle, and Roxy changed her tiny diaper, careful not to move her leg too much. She hummed as she did so and continued until the child had gone back to sleep.

The third time the child woke her with a high-pitched screech. Roxy bolted upright and grabbed her little hand. “It’s okay, little one, you’re not alone.” She hummed as the child cried, then hiccupped, then went back to sleep sucking her lip.

Roxy woke in the morning to the smell of coffee. Her eyes burned and her mouth felt like sandpaper. She looked up to see a stout woman, thick, horn-rimmed glasses on a pink, grandmotherly face beneath a white halo of hair. The woman held out a tray of hospital breakfast, complete with coffee and orange juice to Roxy.

“Thanks.” Until she began eating, Roxy had no idea how hungry she was. She gulped down the orange juice at once and took her time with the coffee.

“I’m Miriam Walker, social worker for Hillside General. And you must be Roxy Parker.”

“Y—yes.”

“I have your background check from officer Bevins that you spoke to yesterday. I just need to know if you’ve changed your mind. Sometimes, things look different in the light of a new day.”

“No!” Roxy steeled her gaze. “I’m not leaving this little girl alone. She deserves better.”

Miriam smiled. “Her name is Isobel Jean Maes. Her mother, Renata Neesken Maes, passed away two days ago, and has no living family we can find. We still don’t know who the father is but we’re looking.”

Roxy looked at the little girl, starting to stir and fuss. She hummed the same song again, and lightly sang out, “My love Isobel…living by herself….” Isobel cooed.

 “She’s no doubt traumatized right now,” Miriam said, “but children this age are resilient. After observing you here all night, I’ve already approved you as temporary guardian. It will take some time to get Isobel in the system and maybe find a better fit for permanent place—”

“How do I apply to make it permanent?”

“You’ll have to fill out an adoption request, and it will need to be processed by Social Services. I’ve already prepared a packet for you with the forms and information, along with Isobel’s medical records. My card is stapled to the front. Feel free to call me with any questions.” Miriam put the packet on the table and held out a clipboard. “If you could sign on the bottom, you’re set to go. Press hard, you’re making four copies.”

Roxy signed, and Miriam removed the pink copy from the bottom and placed it in the packet. Miriam gave her and the child a warm smile. “Anything you need, call me.”

Doctor Fern entered as Miriam left. “Let’s see how our little girl is doing today.” His voice was again the soft, high, singsong he’d used in the urgent care. After changing the bandage, aided by a pacifier and Roxy’s humming, he signed off on the paperwork.

He spoke to Roxy in his normal voice, a rich baritone. “I’ve prescribed antibiotics for little Isobel. One milliliter, morning and night, until it’s gone. As a new mother, you’ll need diapers, size P-3 to start, standard formula, thirty milliliters per feeding, and as much as she wants after. She’ll be ready to start on solid food in about two more months. Leputaurs, although they aren’t really rabbits, are primarily herbivorous, so no meat or fish. The occasional egg-enriched bread or cake is fine, though, and dairy is recommended as long as she handles it well.

“The hospital will send you home with the antibiotics, some diapers, some formula, a car seat, and a small, infant-safe plush toy. I’d recommend picking up more diapers and formula on the way home. She’ll grow much faster than a human baby, so be ready for that.”

“I don’t know how to thank you, Doctor.”

“Just take care of her, that’s thanks enough. And if you need a pediatrician, I’m on duty at the urgent care center in Lakeview every Friday. It’s long drive to the city, and I’d love to keep seeing her.”

“You will.”

Roxy sat next to Isobel’s car seat in the back of the cab. Roxy sang her to sleep and looked at her little, pink face with an overflowing of affection. “You had a rough beginning, little girl, but I’ll make sure the rest goes better for you.”

Trunk Stories

A Profoundly Unhappy Man

prompt: Write about two neighbors who cannot stand each other.

available at Reedsy

Herman Fish Jr. was a profoundly unhappy man. Life had dealt him a poor hand, as he saw it, and it looked as though that wouldn’t improve any time soon. The new neighbor was just another proof that life had singled him out for misery.

The day Asha Hassan moved in, he’d introduced himself and tried to welcome her to the complex, and she responded in a most rude manner. That was all he needed to know about her: rude. She was living in the apartment on the other side of the wall…and she was there to make his life more of a hell than it already was.

When he’d first seen her, he was surprised. She was tall and thin, warm, reddish-brown skin with high cheekbones, deep brown eyes, and long, thick waves of black hair. She’d been dressed in shorts and a tee-shirt, and when she spoke, her accent was so thick he could barely understand her.

She’d told him she was from Somalia, here to go to university, and that her American girlfriend was helping her move. He’d expressed his genuine surprise that a woman from Africa as pretty as she, might be gay. She’d gotten aggressive, finally cursing him in some foreign language.

Before he knew it, the entire weekend had passed, and he’d accomplished nothing beyond seething at the unfairness of his life and the rudeness of his new neighbor. When Monday morning rolled around, he made his way to his dull job in the bleak Department of Motor Vehicles. As if dealing with rude people at work wasn’t enough, he’d have to go home and possibly run into her again.

Lunch, like every workday, was a dismal sandwich from the deli across the street. They were always soggy by the time he got them back to the break room, and they always used too much mayonnaise. After scraping off half the mayonnaise and putting the sandwich back together, he choked it down with the sad, bitter coffee from the giant percolator in the break room.

He watched the second hand on the clock, determined to not work any longer than he was paid for. At precisely 12:30, he returned to the crooked stool at his station and removed the “Out to Lunch” sign. “Next,” he said in a flat voice.

His week continued as normal, only seeing his rude neighbor on the rare occasion they were both in the hallway at the same time. He was glad he hadn’t had to share an elevator with her, as the way she looked at him was as if he was something foul. For his part, he did his best to hide his dislike; after all, they had to live next to each other. She seemed to spend most of her time away, and was only at her apartment at night, alone.

Monday of the second week after she moved in, Herman returned from his lunch of soggy sandwich and bitter coffee, and called out, “Next.”

“Oh. Hello, Mr. Fish. I am needing a driving license.”

Herman looked up to see her. “Great…just fantastic,” he muttered under his breath. “Do you have the form for the written test filled out?”

Asha pointed at the paper she’d already laid on the counter. “I hope our first meeting is not having an influence on this.”

He didn’t answer, but took the form, checked it against her passport, and stamped it. He handed Asha a plastic tag with a number on it. “Take this to the room over there and they’ll get you started on your written test.”

She opened her mouth to speak, but Herman was already droning out, “Next.”

Not that he was paying particular attention, but he noticed that Asha had finished the written test in half the time allowed and had managed to get a slot for the driving portion of the test.

While she was out doing the road test, there was a lull, and he found himself facing her girlfriend. She was a pale, pink-cheeked, five feet nothing of whippy muscle in a sleeveless shirt, short blonde hair, and intense green eyes that bored through him.

“How can I help you?” he asked.

“Look, I don’t know if you’re racist, homophobic, or just stupid, but that was some fucked up shit you said to Asha last week. As if she didn’t deal with enough of that shit at home, now she’s afraid to be around you.”

“What did I do?”

“What did you…ugh! Think about what you said!”

“I said she was pretty, was I wrong?”

“You said she was too pretty and too African to be gay. Does that help you remember?”

“I did no such thing!” Herman cursed whatever fate had decided that this would be a horrid Monday.

“Just…try not to be such a dick around her.” The girlfriend, whose name, Herman realized, he didn’t know, stormed off.

It was fifteen minutes to closing when Asha’s scores crossed his desk with the order for a new resident alien driver’s license. Any normal day, he’d tell them to come back the next day to pick it up, but he didn’t want to anger the little blonde any further.

Herman heaved a sigh as he typed out the information for her new license, then called out, “Asha Hassan to the camera…please.”

She stepped in front of the backdrop, standing on the X on the floor, and her smile dropped as soon as she saw him. He would normally have to tell them to stand on the X, remove their sunglasses or hat, try not to smile, and look directly at the camera. Asha was a pro. Of course, her passport was new, so she’d done this not so long ago…that’s why she knew not to smile.

He focused the image on the computer’s monitor. She really was pretty when she wasn’t cursing him out. He hadn’t seen her girlfriend look anything but angry, but he thought Asha could do better. Herman opened his mouth to say so, but he swallowed his comment with a sour frown. She’d think I was insulting her or something.

The ring light flashed, and the machine began printing her driver’s license. “I’ll call you up when it’s ready,” he said.

The machine was slow, and with the time it took to cool down it should have been shut down already. While the card printed and was overlaid with the holographic coating, Herman cleaned the camera and got his desk ready for closing.

The card was ready with less than five minutes left in the day, and he’d be forced to stay an extra ten minutes after closing until the machine was cool enough to be covered with the dust sheet.

“Asha Hassan to window three, please.” There was no one else in the waiting room but Asha and her girlfriend and no clerks other than himself, but he was going to remain professional. He even went above and beyond by saying “please.”

The two women stepped up to the counter, and he slid the card across to her. Her girlfriend stood on tiptoes to kiss her on the cheek. “Let’s go celebrate.”

They left without even thanking him for staying late. “You’re welcome,” he said to the empty room. “Typical.”

Herman’s commute home took twenty minutes longer than normal. Staying late had put him in the midst of the worst of rush hour traffic. When he finally got home, it was too late to make something decent for dinner, so he settled for a can of soup. While he ate it, he wondered why the store was always out of the good soup whenever he shopped.

After soup and getting ready for bed, Herman heard the elevator at the end of the hall ding. A moment later, he heard…barely…Asha’s door being opened and shut.

Now she’s sneaking around like a thief, he thought, totally untrustworthy. That annoyed him. Herman ignored the part of his brain that said he’d be more annoyed if she’d made more noise getting in.

Once the news had finished confirming his worst fears about the state of the world, Herman turned off the television. He heard a faint giggle from Asha’s apartment. It didn’t sound like she was in the living room which adjoined his, but probably in her bedroom.

He moved to his own bedroom and lay down. He couldn’t hear anything else from the adjoining apartment, but his imagination wouldn’t let him rest. Herman was certain the women were laughing at him; at how rude they’d been and how they’d made him stay late and get stuck in rush hour traffic.

Sleep was slow in coming, and fitful. Life, fate, whatever it was, had once again kicked him while he was down. Herman Fish Jr. was a profoundly unhappy man.

Trunk Stories

Monday Before Taco Tuesday

prompt: Write about someone who has been nominated for a prestigious award, but isn’t sure they deserve it.

available at Reedsy

Stephen J. Steyr III missed his old life. Humanity’s ambassador to the Galactic Combine, he had been plucked from his position as a professor of linguistics at Kenyon College, Ohio. He knew he had to follow along and make nice, smile without showing teeth, and accept the award graciously. He also knew it was undeserved.

As the Speaker of the Combine read off his “heroic” deeds, Stephen wanted to curl up in a ball and disappear. He hadn’t done anything they said he had.

“The Honorable Ambassador Steyr from Terra is the true definition of hero.”

Stephen felt his stomach lurch. Don’t read the whole thing, he pleaded in his thoughts.

“Ambassador Steyr showed great courage and the highest ideals of Combine culture when he stopped a terrorist plot right here in the capital. Not only did he incapacitate and detain all seven terrorists until the authorities could pick them up, but he did so without any loss of life.

“In addition, while fighting for his own life and the lives of the other ambassadors, he disarmed their explosive device and contained the bio-contaminate they wished it to disperse.

“For his heroic acts, Ambassador Stephen James Steyr the Third is awarded the Star of Luminance; the highest military or civilian honor the Combine can offer.” The Speaker motioned him forward and laid the long ribbon bearing a diamond star that shone with its own inner light over his shoulders.

Stephen gave a slight bow and raised a hand to touch the Speaker’s manipulator tentacle in the Combine equivalent of a handshake. The ambassadors in the chamber cheered and Stephen let himself be led away from the podium.

The ceremony was the only thing on the agenda for the day, so the ambassadors were ready to start filing out. Stephen only noticed once he’d been led there, that he was positioned right outside the main doors with the security detail.

He spent the next interminable hour smiling and touching hands, claws, tentacles, paws, and manipulators that could be compared to no earthly thing. The last to exit was Antulla, the ambassador from Gensua; an eight-limbed, eight-eyed, quadrupedal, orange-furred creature Stephen considered a friend.

“Come, Steve, we’ll have a drink in my quarters.”

“Sure.” Stephen reached to pull the medal off, but Antulla stopped him.

“You must not take it off in public,” she said, “as it would be an insult to the Combine.”

“Does that mean I have to wear it all the time?”

“Only while on official business. Even heroes get to have a private life.” Antulla winked with the four eyes on the side closest to Stephen, in a quick series.

“Have I ever told you how disturbing that is?”

“You have. Why do you think I do it?”

Stephen leaned into her, bumping his shoulder into her side. “Thanks for being my friend, even if you’re mean.”

“Oh, please. I tease you with my eyes, but the way you bipeds walk…. If I hadn’t been around the council for a long time, it would still make me dizzy with fright.”

“Well, get me drunk enough, and I’ll be a quadruped, too.” He put a hand on the bristle-like fur of her arm. “Speaking of, I’m ready to get drunk enough to forget all this.”

Her quarters seemed larger than his because she had no kitchen. Her status as a senior member of the ambassadorial council meant she had staff to handle things like cooking and cleaning. Where his quarters had a small kitchen, she had a wet bar, at which she was already fixing drinks.

“Alcohol for you, and querinol for me.” She handed him a heavy rocks glass with an amber liquid on ice.

He took a tentative sip. “This is smooth. Where is this from and how do I get some?”

“It’s a Kerian distilled beverage…kth’at’ktl if I’m pronouncing it right.” She sipped her own drink, a murky pink. “The ambassador from Ker’ata will bring some as a gift when he visits. It’s the number two export from their home world, right after carbon-14.”

“I’ll have to remember that.” Stephen lifted the medal off, setting it on the table beside him. A shudder of shame came over him.

“You have to talk to me, Steve. Tell me what’s got you down.”

“I’ll need another drink first,” he said, “before I’m ready to embarrass myself like that.”

After small talk over several drinks and a light snack, Stephen had removed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. Antulla stretched out on the soft couch and he joined her, leaning against her. Her fur was an odd combination of stiff and soft.

“Talk to me,” she said.

“Andy, Andy, Andy…you’re going to hate me. I’m a coward, not a hero.”

“I could never hate you,” she said. “You’re the only creature with a higher body temperature than me that’ll snuggle like this.”

He chuckled. “Okay, fine. I can’t just…tell it, but I’ll answer your questions.”

“The first terrorist, the Alulian…how did he end up temporarily blinded?”

“Oh, the gecko-thing.” Stephen sighed. “I was cooking, getting some stuff ready for the next day’s dinner.”

“You were cooking for the following day? Is that a normal thing for Terrans?”

“Sometimes, when there’s stuff that can be done ahead of time. Anyway, it was Monday on the human calendar, so I was making salsa and chips for Taco Tuesday.”

Stephen could tell that she had more questions, but she held back. He continued.

“He broke open my door and came straight for me. I dropped my peanut-butter sandwich and reached for the knife I’d been slicing onions with. He tried to snatch it with his sticky tongue, but ended up getting my sandwich instead.

“While he was busy looking like a dog trying to get the peanut butter off his tongue, the oil for the chips caught fire. I moved the pan off the hob and grabbed the bag of baking soda I keep on hand for that sort of thing. Problem was, I still had the knife in my hand, and at least a third of it ended up as dust in the air.

“I didn’t think about the fact that Alulians can’t blink, and he didn’t think about the peanut butter stuck to his tongue. He reflexively licked his eyes to clear the dust and…began to scream.”

“Did you get the fire out?”

“Yeah, barely, but I forgot to turn off the hob.”

“Who came next?”

“The two Metlians. They circled around to the kitchen entrance. I don’t know why, but since they remind me of giant slugs, I poured a line of salt across the entry on that side of the kitchen. I was just lucky it worked, because I was frozen in fear for a moment.

“When they touched the salt and recoiled in pain, I ran around to the other side and blocked them in with an arc, leaving them trapped in a kind of crooked circle of salt. Meanwhile, the gecko had gone from screaming to crashing blindly around the flat.”

Stephen finished his drink and held it out for a refill. He figured that now he was on a roll, he may as well finish the story.

“I ran to the panic room and pushed the button to open it, and the four lizard-guys in security uniforms ran in. I was so glad to see them, I dropped the knife and made straight for them.

“When one of them raised a weapon at me, I realized the uniforms didn’t fit them well at all. The panic room was open, and the gecko had already stumbled in there.

“The one with the pistol motioned me away from the panic room. With the other three taking up space, that meant I had to squeeze past the slugs into the kitchen. One of the lizard-men had a box in his hands, and it started to beep.

“He threw it at me, and when I stepped back, I knocked over the blender full of habanero salsa. Some of it spilled on the hob and began smoking. The smoke was blinding; it felt like chili oil had been rubbed directly into my eyes.

“The device the lizard-fellow had thrown at me was still beeping and I’m not sure why, but I picked it up and dropped it in the basin full of soapy dish water. There was a shot fired, and a hole burned into the cabinet near my head.

“That’s when I grabbed the nearest thing to hand, the half-full blender of salsa, and threw it at him. The salsa sprayed in a wide arc, hitting all four of them close enough to the face to send them into coughing, gagging fits.

“I was still half-blind from the chili smoke and the lizard-guys were scrambling to find their way out. The slugs had forced themselves across the salt when the smoke got too much for them and ended up heading toward the panic room where the gecko was still thrashing about.

“The lizard-guys picked that direction as well. I guess they thought it was a way out. As soon as they were in, I hit the emergency panel again, closing the panic room from the outside, and then stumbled back into my kitchen to find milk to wash my eyes out with…and to turn off the hob.”

Stephen drained another drink, unaware that Antulla had been diluting them with water to the point they barely had any color. He set the glass down and pointed at the medal. “I didn’t earn that, I don’t deserve it, Andy. You probably think I’m pathetic now, right?”

“Not at all. You ended up in that situation through no fault of your own. You adapted, you survived, and you saved a lot of lives.” She put an arm around his shoulders. “You deserve that medal. But…I have a question.”

“What?”

“What is a ‘Taco Tuesday’?”

Trunk Stories

Rooftop in Old Rio

prompt: Set your story in an unlikely sanctuary.

available at Reedsy

The sun sank below the tops of the city, the hundred-story, kilometer square, squat, grey blocks arranged in a neat grid. The ruins they worked their way up, in the heart of the old city, were one-fifth the height.

The stairwell was open in spots, the vines having wedged into the mortar and pulled parts of the wall away. Sid looked out one of the holes at the ground far below. “Are you sure this is safe?”

“Enough. Nothing’s completely safe.” Ala continued to the roof, waiting for Sid to catch up.

“How about,” Sid asked, catching his breath, “legal?”

“Oh, no. Not at all.” Ala laughed.

Sid eyed the door to the stairwell and crouched down. He licked his lips and took a few deep breaths.

“Relax. No one’s looking for us here, and there are no regular patrols.” Ala removed her pack, pulled out a blanket and spread it with a shake.

“How often do you do this?”

“Every chance I get.” She pointed to one of the other ruined buildings. “That one has a better view into the jungle, but the roof is starting to sag. Squishy in places, a little scary. Still, there’s enough of a view from here.”

Sid stood and looked away from the city toward the jungle. It had reclaimed the smaller buildings around the ruins.

With the sunset, the noise from the jungle increased. Birds and monkeys called out in the twilight. Ala raised a pair of binoculars and scanned the trees. She handed them to Sid and pointed to a large tree at the edge of the canopy.

Sid watched as monkeys jumped from branch to branch in a wild chase. He handed the binoculars back. “Not something I ever thought I’d see.”

“That’s not the best part,” she said.

“What’s that?”

“You’ll have to wait a bit for it. In the meantime, let’s eat.” She unpacked the bedrolls and self-heating meals. While the meals heated, she removed a thermos from her pack and poured two cups of steaming coffee.

“That smells amazing. Is it real?”

“Yep. Normally I wouldn’t bother, but since I brought a guest, I thought I’d splurge.”

As they ate, their conversation was trivial, and about nothing in particular. Ala noticed that Sid wolfed down his meal but took time savoring his coffee sip by sip.

“There’s more of that,” she said, “you don’t have to make it last all night.”

“It’s not that. I just want to enjoy this as long as I can.”

The sky darkened by slow degrees. Venus showed first, followed by a few bright stars. By the time the sky had gone dark, the Milky Way splashed across the night.

“It’s…beautiful doesn’t seem adequate.” Sid lay back on his bedroll and stared.

“This is why I love it here.” Ala hummed in content. “Clear skies and new moon is the best.”

“Now I understand your art a little better.”

“How so?”

“Well, as far as abstract art goes, there’s something about it that seems solitary without being lonely. There’s also a feeling in several of them of being…small? Insignificant without being totally unimportant? Not sure I’m being clear.”

“No, you are. Those are valid interpretations.” Ala made a sweeping gesture at the Milky Way above. “All of this, and yet I can lay here and contemplate it with thirteen hundred grams of brain-meat.”

“Humbling.”

“Ego boost. I mean, we don’t even have the largest brains on Earth, yet we’re the ones that have ventured to other stars, colonized other worlds. Sure, we messed up early on, nearly killed the planet, but we found our way and it’s well on the way to recovery.”

“You ever been out there?”

“Mandatory service,” Ala said. “I was bounced around between systems: Bul, Dem, Kal, and Moz. You?”

“I…no. I did mandatory service in Capital City. It was the first time I left the block.” Sid propped himself up on his elbows. “In fact, today is the first day I left the block since I returned twelve years ago. I thought when I got off the train, I’d…I don’t know. It scared me.”

“The whole trip you were scared. And now?”

“Calm.”

“Exactly. That’s why I come here. To relax, recharge, reconnect to what’s important.”

“What’s that?”

“That part inside that makes us unique? I’m not sure, but whatever it is, I feel it most here, and pour it out on the canvas.”

“What’s that noise?” Sid asked.

Ala listened, catching a faint hum on the breeze. “Shit. It’s a drone. Let’s get to the stairwell before it gets here.”

She grabbed up the blanket and pack and ran across the dark rooftop. Sid followed close. They started down the dark stairs, feeling their way.

“Don’t you have a light?”

“Yeah, and if I turn it on now, the drone might pick it up. As it is, I can hope that our heat signatures are hidden enough by the ruins to be a jaguar or something.”

“Jaguar?!”

“Yeah, but they don’t usually come this far out. I’ve only ever seen one, and that was from a distance.”

Sid sat down on the stairs. “I’m not taking another step until I have some light.”

“Sid, I get that you’re not used to being outside…at all. A few minutes ago, you were laying under the stars feeling calm.”

“And?”

“And…if we ever want to be able to come back, we need to get clear of the ruins without being caught.”

“Would it really be that bad? It’s a fine? What?”

“Yeah, it’s a fifty credit fine. But…we’ll be watched every time we leave the block. Meaning we’ll never get within a kilometer of the ruins again.”

“That wouldn’t be so bad for me,” Sid said. “Hell, I’ll pay your fine, too. I just don’t want to kill myself trying to get out of here in the dark.”

Ala leaned in close him, where they could see each other in the dim light of the stars through the broken wall. “I’m not losing this because you’re scared! I’d rather leave you behind. This is my sanctuary, my only place of peace. You take this away, you might as well lock me in the asylum, because I won’t last.”

Sid shrank back before he stood and nodded. They continued their slow descent. “How long have you been coming here?” he asked.

“Since I was six or seven. My mother used to sneak out here with me. We used to camp out on the building I pointed out earlier. My family roots come from right here. We used to go by the graveyard first and visit my great-great-however-many-grandparents.”

“Where’s the graveyard?”

“It’s completely covered by the jungle now. Even the little path is gone. It disappeared while I was doing my mandatory service.”

“I’m sorry you lost that.”

“Thanks. I could probably find it again, but maybe it’s better that the jungle reclaims it. Sorry I snapped at you. You didn’t deserve that.”

“No, I probably did.” They continued in silence for a while before he spoke up again. “If I’d just been a little patient, my eyes would’ve adjusted. I can sort of see the stairs now.”

“A couple more floors and we’ll be far enough past the last hole in the wall to use a light.”

“Can you still hear the drone?”

“No, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t there.” She slowed down and held a hand up. “This is the last hole coming up. It’s pretty big. I’ll go first and make sure the coast is clear.”

Ala edged around the corner where she found the drone sitting on the next landing down. She backed up into Sid.

He leaned close and whispered. “It’s right there, isn’t it?”

Ala nodded.

“What do we do?”

“I don’t—”

The drone hummed and ascended to where the two were huddled. “Hello,” a voice came from the drone.

Ala drooped. “Hi.”

“I’ll pay the fines,” Sid said.

“Oh, you’re not in trouble,” the voice said. “At least not from me.”

“Who?”

“Pardon me. Doctor Sue Westmore, Rio University Archaeology Department.”

“We’ll…leave,” Ala said. “Please don’t let the authorities know.”

“Not at all. I’d heard rumors of someone haunting the ruins on clear nights and wanted to see for myself. I’m sorry for eavesdropping, but seeing how well you navigated, I just had to know. Since you know the ruins, at least out to the cemetery, I’d like to hire you as a guide.”

“A guide? For what?”

“We’re planning on having grad students do some field work here in Old Rio. The government has approved a grant to restore the cemetery along with a walking path and turn it into a heritage site.”

“What does that mean for me?” Ala asked.

“You would help the students find the cemetery, and maybe some other excursions through the city ruins. One or two days a week. And you’d have full access to the ruins at any time. For at least four years.”

“But it feels like my secret spot is being taken away.”

“If you don’t want to be involved, that’s fine, but it’s happening either way.”

Ala groaned.

Sid grabbed her shoulder. “If you take the job, you can make sure the students never get anywhere around this building, or even this part of the ruins. It’s not safe, right?”

“I guess you’re right. How do I contact you, Doctor?”

“Sync your comm with the drone, and I’ll holo you tomorrow.”

Once Ala had gotten the ping from the drone, it flew back out of the building and away. She handed the torch to Sid. “Let’s get home.”

Sid turned on the torch behind her. The harsh light against the walls and stairs made it seem flat. Ala felt it took the magic away. She just hoped that it wasn’t gone forever.

Trunk Stories

On-Brand

prompt: Write about a character who wakes up in someone else’s clothes — or utterly weird apparel they don’t recognize as their own. 

available at Reedsy

Waking up in a strange environment, Trevor looked around and chuckled. “On-brand,” he said to no-one in particular. The dull headache told him he’d drunk too much the night before…typical.

He had vague recollections of the party and tried to recall faces. Which gal, guy or neither/both had he hooked up with? That he couldn’t recall a name or a face to put it to was something he’d dealt with in the past. It required a certain amount of self-deprecating charm.

The room looked like a cheap hotel trying to feel expensive; all white and clean lines with nothing in the way of distinguishing decorations. Hearing the door open, Trevor rolled out of the bed and held his hand out to the man entering. “Hi, I’m Trevor. I hope last night was pleasurable…or at least not too major a disappointment.”

A sour frown crossed the man’s face. His wrinkled, grizzled, scarred face with one eye gone milky and the other deep brown. The man was wearing an obvious uniform, but of what military or police Trevor’s couldn’t work out. It was nothing like he’d ever seen. The man’s left hand was mechanical and tapped with a metallic sound against his left thigh.

“That is so not on-brand,” Trevor said. He looked down at his hand that was still waiting for a shake, and realized it was in a bright orange glove. His eyes followed the hand to the arm, to his torso, to his legs, to his feet. He was clothed in a skin-tight, bright orange outfit with no visible seams or fasteners. Where he’d thought himself nude, he was completely covered.

“Trevor Michael Joplin, you are expected before the judge.” The man’s voice was like raking gravel over a rusty steel plate.

“Judge? What’s going on?”

Rather than answering, the man pushed a button on the device he carried. Trevor’s arms locked themselves against his sides, his hands curled into fists. No matter how he struggled, the suit restrained him more securely than any cuff or shackle.

Trevor followed the man out to a narrow hallway, lined with doors like the one he had exited. A line of blue light marked the floor and they followed it. As the man turned a corner, Trevor stopped.

“This is stupid. You have to at least tell me what—”

He was cut short by the suit forcing his legs into a back-twisting, convulsing gait to catch up to the guard, who just grunted at him. Before he could renew his protest, the man said, “Save it for the judge.”

The blue line ended at a nondescript door at the end of an empty hall. The guard opened the door and pointed in. Not wanting to endure the forced walk again, Trevor entered.

The chamber was small, entirely white aside from the pale blue wall behind the judge’s bench. The lights dimmed and a spotlight illuminated a circle in the middle of the chamber, throwing the bench, and the judge, walking in and taking a seat, in silhouette.

“Stand in the light,” the judge said, her clear voice a stark contrast to that of the guard.

Trevor moved to the circle of light and faced the judge’s bench. “What’s this about?”

“Trevor Michael Joplin. That is your name, correct?”

“Yeah. I still don’t—”

The judge cut him off. “You were born in Miami, Florida, United States of America? Is this correct?”

“Yeah. Wait…where—”

“On or about the Fifth of May 2022, did you attend a ‘Cinco de Mayo’ party in the Tenderloin district of San Francisco?”

“Oh, yeah, that’s what the party was. Julia was there, for sure, and I bet Maz and Cupid…still don’t know who I hooked up wi—”

“At this party, did you willingly partake of a pill that looked like this?” In the air between the judge and Trevor a hologram of a pink capsule with a blue ring appeared.

“I don’t remember,” he said, “but it’s pretty on-brand, so if it was offered, I probably said yes.”

“Trevor Michael Joplin, we are well aware of your lifestyle. Please stand still for a physical scan.”

He felt the suit holding him in place. Even if he wanted to move, he couldn’t. Trevor waited for the scanning lasers or flashing lights or buzz of x-ray machine, but nothing happened.

A moment later, the suit released its hold on him. “Now can I ask what’s go—”

“Trevor Michael Joplin, remain silent for a few moments. Once we have the results of your scan, we will be able to answer any questions to your satisfaction.”

While he waited, he stretched out a finger of his glove and rubbed his finger along it, getting the feel of the strange fabric. It was nothing he had ever felt before. It felt more like skin than cloth.

The seconds stretched into minutes before the judge’s silhouette moved and raised a hand. “The results of your physical scan find you marginally suitable. Now we can answer your questions.”

The spotlight turned off and the lights in the chamber came back up. The “judge” sat behind a wooden desk wearing a white uniform. Her close-cropped hair was raven black against her copper skin.

“Where am I?”

“You are in the headquarters of the Continuum Project.”

“That’s a non-answer. Can you please just explain what’s going on, and why I’m under arrest?”

The judge laughed. “You are not under arrest,” she said, “though I can see why it would feel that way. When you accepted the pill, it was explained to you that it was a one-way trip to the future, to father a new generation.”

“Say what? I thought it just meant it would be psychedelic and make me horny.”

The judge groaned. “As I have already stated, we are well-aware of your proclivities, thus you are in the last group to be woken.”

“Group woken, what?”

“The Continuum Project, founded in 1986, selected seven-hundred males between the years of 1991 and 2032 to be held in cryogenic suspension for the future which they foresaw.”

“What future?”

“The disappearance of the Y-chromosome. It was believed that the Y-chromosome was shrinking to the point of becoming unviable. It turns out, that belief was correct.”

“You’re trying to tell me this is the future and there are no men? What about the guard?”

“There are men, but they are nearing extinction. The Y-chromosome, or what is left of it, shows up in one out every thirty or so men. While the XXY combination is not as detrimental as it was during your day, it’s still not ideal.”

“So, wait…you’re saying I’ve got make a lot of babies to save humanity?” Trevor stood up straighter and puffed out his chest. “That’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make!”

“I think you misunderstand what’s being asked of you. We took a DNA sample before we woke you. Your physical status, post-waking from cryogenics, and system still awash in intoxicants, tells us all we need to know.

“Your genetic material is being replicated in the lab as we speak, and you are free to go. Clothing and an ID are waiting for you in your waking chamber. You’ve been asleep for a few hundred years, though, so don’t expect anything to look the same.”

“What about a job, a place to stay?”

“With an ID you don’t need a job, but if you want one you can find it. There are subsidized housing units next to the facility. Just beyond them, you’ll find a 24-hour intoxicants club opened by the previous group we woke. I believe you’ll find it very ‘on-brand’ for you. Good day.”

Trunk Stories

Picturing Heritage

prompt: A character finds an old roll of film, and takes it to be developed. What do they find?

available at Reedsy

Stephanie disconnected the call and heaved a sigh. Her mother’s sudden death had been yet another upheaval in her life. Just like the night before her eleventh birthday, when she’d been ripped out of home and school to travel across the country.

Then, it had been her mother’s sudden flight from her father. She knew there’d been tension in their marriage, but no idea how bad it was. What exact thing led to their middle-of-the-night escape from home with a single suitcase her mother refused to talk about. The most she would say was that her father’s nature was impossible to deal with.

In the years that followed, Stephanie often noticed her mother looking at her as if she was unsure what she was seeing. When she confronted her mother about it, she said something about her father’s heritage. She remembered him as a large, powerfully built man, always smiling, gregarious and charming, able to talk almost anyone into anything.

When she’d first moved out to go to college, she had tried to find her father, with no luck. By the time she’d completed her undergrad degree, she’d given up.

Now, she’d had to leave in the first semester of her master’s studies to arrange her mother’s meager estate. A run-down, one-bedroom cottage on a postage-stamp parcel of land, a clapped-out third or fourth-hand car that was more rust than metal, and a modest bank account.

She’d had the car hauled off to the wrecking yard. Selling the house was taking more time than Stephanie would have liked. Unless she could find someone to buy it “as is,” there remained a great amount of work to get it to pass inspection.

That morning’s call, however, was the first time she’d heard of anything in storage. That it was in deep-freeze storage since they’d first fled was worrisome. What sort of awful thing would her mother have stored frozen?

There was nothing to be done about it but go clear out the storage. The storage fees had been pre-paid, but the company was shuttering their doors.

Stephanie found the company on the outskirts of the industrial area. The exterior of “CryoStorage Meat Lockers” didn’t inspire any confidence. The bare concrete block construction with crumbling mortar and layer upon layer of gang tags made her nervous about parking there.

Spying a security camera by the front door, she parked where her car was in direct line of sight of it. Entering the building, she felt rather than heard the hum of the cooling equipment.

“Come to clear out your storage?” The wrinkled, grey man behind the counter looked as if he’d weathered the years no better than the building.

“Yes.” Stephanie laid out a copy of the legal paperwork that declared her executor of her mother’s will. “I believe the attorney said it was lot number J-32.”

“You got the key?”

“Uh, no. We didn’t find any keys in her things. Not even house keys.”

“No problem. I got the masters.” He pulled a ring with a dozen keys from beneath the counter and shrugged on a heavy coat. “At least it’s a small one. Follow me.”

He led her out a heavy door to a hallway where the hum of machinery was uncomfortable. Heavy freezer doors lined one side of the hall, each with a letter. He stopped at the one marked “J” and picked a key from the ring before opening it. “It’ll be a mite cold in there.”

As the door swung open, biting, frigid air spilled out, creating gouts of fog swirling around their feet. The thermometer on the far wall showed it as minus forty degrees, and the rest looked more like a bank vault than a meat locker. Deposit boxes lined the walls and the old man stepped in without hesitation, putting his key in number 32 and swinging it open.

Stephanie rushed to the box and looked inside. There was a shoe box closed with duct tape that had long ago lost its adhesion. She pulled it out and hurried out of the freezer, the cold stabbing daggers into her. Around the corner from the door, she set the frozen box down as her fingers protested the chill.

The old man shut the deposit box and then the freezer door. “You going to be all right, young lady?”

“Yeah. I’m not sure what she’d want to freeze for all these years, but I guess it’s just something else to get rid of. You have a trash can?”

“I do, but you’re not putting that in it until you look.”

“Why?”

“It might be something illegal for all I know, and I’m not taking the fall for anyone but myself.”

She picked up the box and heard something inside shift. Whatever it was, it was light.

Back in the office, she set the box on the counter and lifted the lid. Inside, sealed in a freezer bag, was a disposable camera. Stephanie recognized it as the same type her mother would buy when they went on vacations, not that they’d taken any trips after leaving her father.

“So, you want me to throw that out?” the old man asked.

“I—I’ll keep the camera, but can you recycle the box?”

“Sure, sure. Looks like there’s a bit of a refund coming on that unit. Is the address on file still good?”

“Um, no. Just keep the copy of the documents and use the contact info there.”

Stephanie drove back through the downtown area, such as it was, and parked in a half-empty lot. The camera sitting on the seat next to her nagged at her. Did it have answers, or just more questions?

She pulled out her phone and searched for film developing. The nearest was a one-hour photo place on the next block. She picked up the camera and walked there.

The bored, purple-haired attendant watched her enter and set the camera on the counter. She pushed a form and pen across the counter to Stephanie.  “One hour, or overnight?”

“One hour, if you can. Assuming anything is salvageable.”

The attendant picked up the camera and looked at the date stamped on the bottom. A frown crossed her face. “Thirteen years. How was it stored?”

“In that bag, in a box, in a minus forty deep-freeze. My mother must have stored it as soon as we….”

A pierced eyebrow rose. “Tell you what, I don’t trust the machine with this. I’ll do it manually, but it’ll take closer to two hours. Just put your cell number on the form, and I’ll call you as soon as it’s ready.”

“Thanks.”

Stephanie wandered around the downtown area before settling into a coffee shop to relax and wait. The town struggling to be a city bustled around her with a false sense of urgency. It hadn’t changed in the five years she’d been gone.

She was on her third cup of coffee when her phone rang. “Yes?”

“Y—your pictures are ready.” She sounded shaken.

“I’ll be right there.” She was already out the door by the time she hung up, and she joined in the bustle around her, struggling to keep herself from running.

The attendant looked as if she’d seen a ghost. The envelope of photos sat on the counter as far away from her as possible.

“How much?”

“N—nothing. Just…get those away from me.”

Stephanie pulled a twenty out of her purse. “Here, keep it.”

“Did you say your mother took these?”

“Yeah.”

“You…may not want to look at these.”

“Why?”

“If these were digital, I’d be convinced they were fake. But…if that’s real….”

With shaking hands, Stephanie pulled the photos out of the envelope and began going through them, one by one.

The first was a picture of the Casa Grande Dispatch, dated July 12th, 2007, in a newspaper rack. The photos all had time stamps in the bottom right corner and the dates agreed. Next was a picture of her father’s truck, license plate clearly visible, in a motel parking lot.

Stephanie thought she knew where this was going. The next picture was her father’s nude body, atop an unknown young woman in the throes of passion. The harsh shadows thrown by the flash fell across the cheap decor of the low-budget motel room.

The next few pictures showed her father scrambling off the top of the woman, who dove for the far side of the bed. He turned toward the camera, his eyes completely black, no whites showing at all. In the last few pictures, horns grew from his head, leathery wings sprouted from his back, and a whip-like tail swiped at the camera.

She knew it was her father, even in the last frame where his face was distorted in rage, sharp fangs on display and forked tongue curling out. She looked at the time stamps. From the first picture catching him in the act, to the tail-thrashing last was a total of eighteen seconds. Not enough time for makeup and contacts or any kind of trickery.

Now she knew why they’d fled, and what “heritage” her mother was talking about, but it raised a new question for her. If that…thing…was her father, what was she?

Trunk Stories

Friends in Secret Places

prompt: Write a story involving a friendship between two different species.

available at Reedsy

I first met her a month after my twelfth birthday…the day I got my first period. At first, I thought I had a minor stomach bug. I’d told Mum I’d be fine, and she went to work while I worked on my studies. I was working on a problem in differential calculus — a side benefit of being home-schooled by a theoretical physicist mother — when I felt it.

Seeing the stain on my shorts, I cleaned myself up and changed, adding a pad in the way Mum had taught me. I was so excited for it, that I ran to her office to tell her. She wasn’t in her office. The door to the labs was behind her desk, but it was off-limits.

I’d tried to open that door once, when I was younger and received a stern lecture on how dangerous it would be. My hand shook as I reached for the knob. Wait, I thought, I’m a woman now. I can do anything Mum can.

Maybe I should back up a little, first. They say the pill is ninety-nine percent effective. That seems like decent odds…unless you’re in the one percent like me. I was an “accident,” but my mother thanked me for my existence every day.

Aside from me, Mum had no living family, which, she said, is why she was selected for this job, where she met my father, the microbiologist. He died when I was two. He went outside in the middle of an August storm, the only explanation his health report that showed he had symptoms of early-onset Alzheimer’s. They didn’t find him until the annual supply drop in the December summer.

Growing up in the complex under the ice, I never got the appeal of going outside. Mum assured me that most of the world isn’t like here, a barren expanse of blinding ice and snow. I’ve seen loads of it on the telly, but it doesn’t feel real to me.

I never knew what they did in the labs, or why a theoretical physicist was needed in Antarctica, but Mom said she was committed to the position for life. She assured me that when I was old enough, I could leave to explore the world, go to university, whatever I desired. With my body telling me I was growing up, that seemed not so far away as it used to.

I set my shoulders with false confidence and went through the door. The hallway on the other side was underwhelming. Beige walls, floor, and ceiling, doors to other offices along the opposite wall, and a large door with an “Authorized Personnel Only” sign at the end of the hallway.

I was about to slink back into the office when she barreled around the corner and ran into me. “I’m sorry,” she said, disentangling herself from me. “I know I’m not supposed to run here, but I was bored.”

She was shorter me, with pale, blue skin, huge copper eyes, and four arms. While I wasn’t frightened by her, I was shocked, and rather than introducing myself properly I blurted out, “I just got my period. I—I mean, I’m not supposed to be here, but I was looking for my mum.”

She smiled with her eyes, her wide mouth opening the slightest bit, and the slits where a nose should’ve been widening. “Hi. You’re small for a human. You can call me Liz. I’m a kellian.”

Her voice sounded like tinkling glass, and she seemed thin and frail to the point of fragility. There was something in her manner that endeared her to me in that moment of our clumsy awkwardness.

“Sorry. I’m Abigail, and I’m not small, I’m twelve. Is my mum around? I was just excited to tell her.”

“I don’t know anyone named ‘My Mum.’ Sorry.”

“No, I mean, her name is Dr. Marilyn Arthur.”

“Doctor Marilyn is in the labs. I’m not allowed in there.” Her large eyes grew even wider. “Did you come from one of the doors on that side of the hall?”

I nodded and put my hand on the door to Mum’s office. “This one. Which door did you come from?”

She pointed to the door opposite Mum’s. “My progenitor’s office. Wait, does ‘mum’ mean progenitor…parent?”

“Exactly. Were you born here, too?”

“No, but this is a neat planet.” She looked back and forth down the hall. “I should probably sneak back before someone notices. See you tomorrow at the same time?”

That was the first meeting of thousands. Not every day, but most days. How we evaded detection for five years is beyond me, but we did. I snuck her into my room every day both our mums were in the lab.

Some days we would speculate about what our parents were doing. Others, we would watch one of Mum’s DVD movies in my room before I snuck her back to the hall.

We made up songs and told each other stories based on the most outrageous concept the other could imagine. She comforted with me when my period cramps were bad, and I massaged her when her growth spurts came with the attendant muscle and joint pain.

She put up with my constant complaints about my nearly non-existent breasts and short stature, and I consoled her when she was feeling bad about her changing skin color. I thought the swirls of darker blue were beautiful, but she assured me that until she was uniformly dark, she would not be considered an adult.

My first crush, Brian from the Breakfast Club, was a frequent topic of discussion, at least until I let the credits run on Mum’s DVD. When I realized that he was older than Mum, he was my first heartbreak as well. Liz comforted me in the way only she could, two arms holding me tight, one hand petting my hair, and one hand rubbing my back.

It turns out, I was Liz’s first heartbreak. I didn’t mean to hurt her, and if I’d known then, I wouldn’t have said anything. I had just gotten my passport and was working out with Mum where I’d go to university.

I was more scared than excited about leaving and told the only person I could, Liz. She didn’t say anything; just stared at me for a few moments before her nostril slits closed and her eyes narrowed, and she got a hitch in her breath. By then, I knew her well enough to know that she was doing the closest thing her kind can do to ugly crying.

She stormed out of my room to go back to the hallway and to “her side” of the station. I was on her heels, but not fast enough. Liz stormed into Mum’s office as I was crying and apologizing and begging her to tell me what I’d done wrong. She’d stopped in front of me, and as she was now taller than I, blocked my view.

It was only after I hugged her from behind, asking her to wait and talk it out, that I realized we weren’t alone. I peeked around her upper shoulder to see Mum’s face. The last time I’d seen that look was when she talked about my father walking out into the storm.

“M—Mum, what’s wrong?”

“You two first,” she said, regaining her composure. “Lisiakta, what are you doing in the human quarters?”

“Hang—hanging out with Abi.”

“How long?”

“Not even half an hour,” I said, “and she won’t tell me why she’s upset.”

“I mean,” my mother said, “how long have you two been sneaking around?”

I stepped around Liz and found it difficult to look Mum in the eye. “Since I was twelve…the day I got my period.”

“You’ve known about them that long and never said anything?”

“Liz said she’d get in trouble if anyone knew, and I thought I’d get in trouble for going in the hall that first time.” I set my shoulders the way Mum did when she put her foot down about something. “Mum, I’m seventeen, I’m an adult. You can’t keep me away from my only friend here, and I’ll be back to visit her from Uni every chance I get.”

I felt Liz tighten up behind me when I said it. “Oh my god!” I spun around and grabbed her. “I’m so sorry. Am I your only friend here, too?”

She hugged me back and her breath hitched in the way that meant she was crying. “You are,” she said, “and I’ll miss you.”

Mum cleared her throat and we faced her. Grief etched lines across her face. “I’m afraid you won’t be able to go to Uni. I did my best to protect you, but anyone who has had contact with our guests is not allowed to leave…ever. That’s why we only recruit people with no living family.”

Liz’s eyes narrowed and her head dropped. “I’m sorry I got you in trouble, Abi. Now you’re stuck here forever and it’s my fault. It’s okay if you never want to see me again.”

“You silly goose! Of course I want to see my best friend in the whole world! That’s why I was trying to tell you that I’ll be going to Uni in Australia to make it easier to fly back here on break.”

“Abigail Rose!” When Mum said my middle name I knew it was serious. “Don’t take this lightly. You can’t leave. I’ll make sure you finish a proper education, along with some of my colleagues. You don’t have to study physics if you don’t want to, but you’ll have to find something to make you useful around here. As of now, you work here.”

“Why, Mum? I still don’t get it.”

“Her Majesty’s government, along with the others of the G20, have determined that anyone not working here that knows about our visitors must either be held in permanent solitary or…eliminated. It’s just too dangerous if the information gets out.”

There was a knock on the door to the hallway, and Mum opened it up. I knew right away it was Liz’s mum…progenitor. She looked like a darker version of Liz. “Your mum’s pretty, just like you,” I told Liz.

She stood frozen in the doorway, until Mum spoke. “Sarilakta, I’d like you to meet my offspring. It seems she’s been aware of your presence for some time now. She’ll be working with us moving forward.”

“Abigail, it is a pleasure to meet you. I’ve heard much about you over the past years.” She crossed all four of her arms and berated Liz in a language that made no sense to me.

I felt Liz tighten up as she went on and hugged onto one of her arms. When her progenitor had finished, she said, in English, “Yes, Mum.”

My mother smirked and wiped it away as quick as she could. “Abi, for now you’ll do janitorial duties until you decide where you want to work and finish your studies. Lisiakta, you shouldn’t be on the human side of the station, it’s dangerous.”

“Yes, Dr. Marilyn,” she said.

“Why don’t you show Abi around the shared sections, the common room, and so on. Tomorrow, I’ll take her down to the labs and introduce her to what we’re doing, and what kind of jobs are available.”

True to her word, I had an employee badge the following morning and spent the first half of the day working and the second half studying. Every spare minute was spent with Liz watching Mum’s old movies on the big screen in the common area.

Pushing a mop five days a week was good motivation to finish my studies with all haste. I ended up deciding on Materials Science, was accepted into the lab eighteen months later, and the usual rotation started back up. Every one of the humans would spend a week doing janitorial work, from the lab techs all the way up to the director.

A month into my job in the MS lab, Liz came in, pushing the cleaning cart. “What are you doing?” I asked. The kellian didn’t have to partake in the cleaning roster.

“My progenitor is returning home in a month, but I want to stay. Means I have to make myself useful.”

“I hope you’re not planning on mopping floors and scrubbing toilets for the rest of your life on my account,” I said.

“No, just while Dr. Marilyn gets me up to snuff on physics, then I’ll be helping her in the lab.”

“Working with the kellian teams?”

“Nope. I’m the first kellian employed by humans. I’ll be learning stuff from my home world at the same time as you.” She pulled a small box with a bow out of the cart and handed it to me. “I missed your birthday, since you were busy in here, but Dr. Marilyn assured me you would love this.”

I opened the belated gift to find a sliver of metal. It felt smooth, polished, yet it reflected only a tiny fraction of the light that hit it. “What is it?”

“It’s a piece off a kellian ship. What it’s made of, is up to you to figure out.” Liz gave me one of her patented hugs and whispered in my ear, “Dr. Marilyn suggested you write a dissertation on it.”

I hugged her back. “Don’t you two start ganging up on me, now. I’ll write it, for sure. I just hope I can figure out how it’s made.”

She was halfway out the door when I said, “By the way, common room tonight. You and I are watching Out of Bounds.”

“Again? I thought you were over Anthony Michael Hall.”

“I am. Well…mostly.”

Trunk Stories

Funny Machines

prompt: Write about somebody who likes to work in silence.

available at Reedsy

Silence is a rare and valuable thing. Even far outside the city, away from everything, sounds are still there; the rustle of leaves in the wind, the soft hum of traffic in the far distance, the airliner crossing the sky. In silence, I can hear my breath, my heartbeat, every twitch of every muscle. In silence, I can hear my thoughts.

The world is too noisy. When I was a child, the doctor called it “auditory hypersensitivity.” The earplugs plus the heavy-duty soundproof hearing protectors the closest I could hope to get to that kind of silence in my work. Rather than being caught up in the sounds of my tools and the funny machines I work on, I can focus on the actual work.

Usually, my work involves repairing whatever machine’s been left on my bench. Using my eyes, fingers, and sometimes nose, I can figure out what needs repair, and how it needs to be done. I lay out the tools I will need, in the order I will need them, and work as quickly as I can to get the job done. Then the tools are cleaned and returned to my tool bag.

There are times, however, where my job is to take a machine apart. It is not to be rushed, as the dismantling is exploratory. Sometimes it becomes necessary during disassembly to stop a leak. Never with the same care as when repairing, just enough to stop the leak.

I checked my bag, made sure I was stocked up on consumables; gloves, tape, cleaning cloths, and other assorted items that get used up during repair or the other thing. The bag has two top openings and a divider in the middle, which makes it easy to keep the repair and disassembly tools sorted.

Boss has known me since my childhood, and he developed a sort of gesture shorthand that allows him to give me orders while my ears are shut off from the world. For his part, the only gestures of mine he pays attention to are a nod or shake of the head, and a shrug of the shoulders. If I can help it, I don’t talk when I’m working. I don’t like the sound of my voice echoing in my head.

With a few gestures, Boss let me know I had a repair job coming in first, and the other sort after. The repair wasn’t overly complicated. A foreign body lodged in the machine, and the concomitant leak.

In the bright lights of my workbench, I donned magnifying goggles and went to work. As I suspected, the leak worsened when I removed the flattened piece of copper and lead from the hole. Careful repair to the fine structures, a patch over the repair, and it was ready to return to whatever it was meant to be doing.

After I had cleaned off the workbench and put my tools in the cleaner, I prepared for the next task. Boss preferred that I lay out my disassembly tools before the machine was placed on the bench. Sometimes, it meant that I didn’t need to do any work, but that was a rare occurrence.

This was not to be one of those times. The machine was bound to the bench and struggled against the bindings that held it in place. It was already leaking like the one I’d just repaired. For these quick fixes, I had developed my own method.

I cut the cloth covering the machine away with a pair of shears to get to the hole. With a shake of the can, I sprayed in an expanding foam to fill the hole, then with a small butane torch I ignited the foam. The smell of burning plastic mixed with the smell of burnt meat told me that it had worked and would stop the leak.

Boss examined it for a while, making me wait. I spent the time browsing the internet on my phone, fighting off boredom. I was in the middle of reading about the mating habits of Diplopoda when Boss tapped my arm.

A hint of ammonia had joined the other smells in the shop. The ear protectors kept the sounds out, though. The lack of sound allowed me to pay attention to how the machine rolled its eyes, the shape of its mouth, the clues that told me when it was safe to push on and when to let up.

One might think that Boss dealt with the noise because he needed to hear it in order to get them information he needed. Boss, from what I could tell however, lived for the sounds: the squelch, the snap, the sizzle, the sobs, the screams. Still, he wouldn’t deign to dirty his own hands. That’s why I was there.

Speaking of hands, Boss pointed to his pinkie and made a scissor action. I’d been doing disassembly long enough to know what he meant.

I picked up my side cutters and grabbed one of the machine’s extremities. Lining up carefully, I removed the last third of the extremity. I followed that up with a short blast from the butane torch to stop the leak.

Boss examined it for a while, then brought me back to prune a little more off. It went like that for hours. By the time I had removed ten extremities in twenty-eight cuts, I knew everything the internet could teach me about millipedes.

It was just a short while after that when Boss had me move on to internal disassembly. This requires skill and care to keep the machine operating while removing critical pieces. I know I said that Boss wouldn’t dirty his hands, but this time, it looked like he had. My enucleation spoon was dirtied, and Boss was holding the still-attached orb and talking to it before yanking it completely free.

I reset my tools, replacing side cutters, chisel, and torch with scalpels, clamps, and cautery pens. I began by opening it up at the soft, lower portion. From there, I could hook the tubing and extract it slowly, being ever so careful as to keep the machine working. When it would go into shutdown mode, I’d pause for a moment, and use the smelling salts to rouse it. Once I had all the tubing laid to the side out of my way, I had access to all sorts of other things that could be removed.

I had just started widening the opening so I could get at more of the insides when Boss stopped me with a tap on the shoulder. He made the signal to dispose of it. I gave him a nod and piled the tubing, and the soft globe, on top of it before transferring it to a cart for disposal.

It was still operational…just…when they pushed it into the incinerator and fired it. While that was happening, I cleaned up my work area and tools, and made sure my tool bag was set for the next job.

When I’d finished for the day, I thought about what I’d learned from the latest disassembly. The false silence of the stuffing and covering of my ears made that possible. I wondered how different my insides looked. Probably not too different, although, whoever dismantled me would have to deal with a uterus and ovaries. I hadn’t yet had a funny machine like me on my workbench, and I wondered when I would.

Trunk Stories

Are You My Client?

prompt: Set your story in the lowest rated restaurant in town.

available at Reedsy

The tall, pale woman dressed in black riding leathers parked her hog behind the small, grey, brick building and locked her helmet to the saddle. A casual stroll around the building, her booted steps quieter than what would be expected, assured her that she was alone.

She entered Frank’s Diner, ignoring the Health Department scorecard that listed it as “Needs Improvement,” one grade above being closed down. She made her way to her usual table in the back corner, where the lights didn’t seem to reach. The floors were sticky and stained, the chairs long past their usable date.

She sat down, her leathers creaking as she did, and checked her watch; three minutes to two. When the waitress started towards her, she waved her off and pointed to her watch.

The front door creaked, and a short, self-assured man in an expensive suit stepped in. The waitress greeted him and pointed to the table where she waited.

He approached her table and stopped. “What a shithole. I take it you’re the ghost?”

“Sit.” Her voice was commanding without being harsh.

He sat opposite her, and she watched him trying to maintain his cool composure in the chair with one leg slightly shorter than the other three. “What should I call you?” he asked.

“Ghost is enough,” she said.

“Why are we here?”

“It’s a shithole dive. No one’s going to be looking for you here.” Raising her voice, she called out, “Marlene, sweetie, two of my usual, please.”

The waitress answered back from the pass-through window, “Right away, hun.”

She pulled a small device out of her pocket and held it as she walked around him slowly.

“Looking for wires? I’m clean.”

Satisfied, she returned to her chair and sat. “Why don’t you tell me what you need and when, and I’ll tell you if it’s possible.”

The man had shifted such that the chair was stable beneath him. He crossed his legs and laid his hands on his lap. “I need some security at the docks, Thursday night. Two hours, sixty-thousand dollars.”

“What are you securing?”

They fell silent as Marlene approached and set a to-go cardboard box in front of each of them. The boxes each contained a grilled cheese sandwich, a bag of off-brand barbecue chips, and a can of off-brand cola. The woman dug into hers as she waited for the man’s response.

“We’ll be liberating a shipment from a container before it goes through customs inspection.”

“How big is this shipment?”

“Why does that matter?”

She set down her sandwich and picked up a chip, waving her hand to make it disappear and reappear. “Small things are easy to screen.” She popped the chip in her mouth, continuing to talk while she chewed. “Bigger things,” she picked up the can of cola, “take more preparation…bigger teams.”

“I’m not at liberty to say in exact terms, but it fits in the trunk of a car. Two-man team, in and out.”

“Sixty grand, now, and I save your sorry ass.”

“What makes you think—?”

“That I’ll need to save your ass? I’m about to do that now.”

His eyes took on a predatory glare. “Who do you think you’re dealing with?”

“You’re Don Marco’s man. Antony, right? And you’re getting ready to steal a pair of lead-lined, hard-sided cases marked as sensitive scientific equipment.”

The man’s surprise showed only for the briefest moment before he composed himself. “You seem to have me at a disadvantage.”

“First, whatever you think is in those cases is wrong. The person that opens one of those cases without proper precautions is going to die a slow, painful death.”

He snorted a derisive laugh. “Trying to scare us off the di—uh…package, isn’t going to work.”

“Second, let’s say you show up on Thursday night and manage to get the cases. By sunrise Friday, the war you started will be in full swing. Monday morning, when the smoke clears, Don Marco will be begging for death, the Marino family will be history, and the rightful owner of those cases will be auctioning off the east side to the highest bidder.

“This is me saving your ass. Go home. Forget about it. There are no diamonds, just death.”

“So you say.”

“Isn’t it odd that Don Marco is looking for help outside the family? Does he not trust his own people enough for this?” She shook her head. “No, he wants to limit the number of people who know, because he knows it would turn into a bloodbath if anyone so much as lets out a peep. So, it’s him, you, the two-man team and maybe a driver. Even then, you don’t know everything he does, and I’d guess the team knows even less.”

“Who is it?” he asked. “The Russians? The Irish? Some punk street gang? We’re not afraid of any of them.”

“All I’ll tell you is that you don’t want to cross them,” she said. “They’re a client. The only way I remain a free agent and continue to get jobs is that I don’t tell my clients’ business to anyone else.”

“I see. Then I guess I’ll need to look elsewhere.”

“That’ll be sixty thousand,” she said.

“For what?”

“Are you my client? Or do I go to my other client and tell them Don Marco is sniffing around their property?”

His pleasant smile dropped, and he pulled a pistol from inside his jacket.

She felt an electric jolt of adrenaline and her legs tensed in reflex, ready for action. She took a calming breath and met his steel gaze with her own. “Are you my client?”

“You just made the wrong enemy.”

“Antony,” she said, forcing herself to relax and spread her arms out, making sure he saw that Marlene and the cook were staring at them, “you’re not going to shoot me here, in the middle of the day. If you were one of the street rats or goons, I’d be worried. You’re too smart for that.”

“You’re right. But I know what you look like now, and the family will be looking for you to shut you up within the hour. I’m gonna’ save your ass now. Run while you can, bitch.”

She leaned forward and spoke in a soft voice, “From whom? You’re already dead, you just don’t know it yet.”

“You don’t scare me, bitch.” He put the pistol away and left the diner. She waited for the sound of his car starting and driving away before she pulled out her cell phone and flipped it open.

“Checking in,” she said, when the phone was answered.

“Hello, Ghost. Are the packages safe?” the voice asked.

She dropped two twenty-dollar bills on the table and waved to Marlene on her way out. “Yeah, still safe. Somebody’s interested, though.”

“And this somebody tried to hire you. Will you let us know who it is, or are they your client?”

Once out the door, she headed the long way around the diner to her bike parked in the back. “If they were my client I wouldn’t have needed to call, because they would’ve gone home and forgotten about it like a good boy. Don Marco sent Antony looking for outside security to grab the packages from the docks…Thursday night. I’d bet most of the Marino family are in the dark, though, or he would’ve used his own people. Oh! They’ve got the diamonds story, if that tells you where the leak is.”

“Interesting, it does.” There was a moment of silence, followed by the unmistakable sound of a gunshot. “When we catch Don Marco’s boys with the packages, we’ll get the information we need to shut them down for good. You might want to stay clear of Marino territory for a while.”

She reached her bike. “I’ll be staying clear for a while anyway. Antony just put a price on my head.”

“You need anything from us?”

“Nah, they’re amateurs and I’ll see ’em coming. The courier dropped the first package last night. It’s at the warehouse. The other two land tomorrow and hit customs on Friday.”

“I suppose you’re due a bonus for the heads-up, and for exposing the mole. What would you consider a fair price?”

“I’ll leave that to you, but could you have your guys pick up the package soon? It’s giving me the creeps. Why do you deal in that shit, anyways?”

“It’s a form of currency in my business. I’ll make sure to leave you out of any future payment deliveries, especially on such short notice. Someone will be by within the hour to pick it up. Call me for the challenge and code word when they get there.”

“Thanks. And let me when it’s safe to go back out.”

“Will do, Ghost. And if you decide to leave consulting for a full-time position, my head of security position just opened up.”

“No, you know me…free spirit and all.” She put her phone away, straddled the bike, and pulled on her helmet. The bike started with a rumble, and she eased out of the alley, turning west on the road fronting the diner.

She wasn’t about to go to work for any client full-time…especially this one. Things like the package currently sitting in her warehouse would probably happen all too often. “Currency” or not, lead-lined case notwithstanding, she wasn’t happy about having radioactive materials in her home.