evardsson.com: stuff that w0rks

prompt: Begin your story with somebody watching the sunrise, or sunset.

available at Reedsy

Something woke me before dawn. I hoped it was a ship, but I couldn’t see any lights. Instead, I watched the sun rise over the ocean. Low chop, there would be no merciful breeze today.

A whale breached and blew, and then another and another. If they were this close to the island on their migration, I knew there must be a shoal of fish out there. I readied my net and hoped they would drive the fish toward me.

I waded out to where the water was just above my knees, the waves reaching just below my chest. How long I stood there, net at the ready, I don’t know. When the whales herded the shoal using bubbles, a portion of them broke off, and swam straight towards the shore in their panic. I caught thirteen on the first cast, waded back out and caught another eight. They weren’t big fish, but they’d be a nice supplement to coconut, roots and leaves of whatever didn’t make me sick, and the tiny crabs that I sometimes roasted and crunched up shells and all.

The island was, I figured, about an acre, give or take. There were plenty of coconut palms, some sparse grass, and a few plants growing in the shade of the palms. Every now and then, a coconut would wash ashore with the high tide, explaining where they came from. The other plants must have hitchhiked in on them as seeds.

Smallish grey and white gulls returned every year to nest. The noise and stink were nearly unbearable at first, but by the time they left I was used to it. It gave me the opportunity to gather eggs, and the weak chicks that were either hatched too late, or too slow to develop and were left behind. The eggs were far tastier than the chicks, but I couldn’t afford to be picky.

I had stopped keeping track of the days a couple of years before, so it was always a pleasant surprise when the gulls showed up to nest. With the whales passing through, it should be sometime in the next few weeks. I replaced the palm fronds on my hut’s roof. I didn’t mind the rain so much, when it came, but could do without being covered in guano while I slept.

I gutted the fish and hung them to dry in the salt air. Fire was a luxury, and not one I employed often. My fuel was limited to coconut husks and dried guano, unless I wanted to cook; then I’d leave out the guano, as the flavor it imparted was horrendous.

The only things left of my sailboat were the now tattered and faded flags that flapped on a pole strapped to one of the palms, my logbook, and the few tools I had rescued before the broken hull washed out to the deep water. A machete that was noticeably thinner of blade than when I had started, a hatchet, now in need of a handle, fifty feet of nylon rope that I had unwound and worked into a net, and a titanium spork that had been a joke birthday gift.

With the fish hung to dry there was little to do for the rest of the day, so I checked the state of my palm skirt. I’d been living nude for at least the last seven years, but I figured out how to make a skirt like I’d seen in travel brochures, in case I was rescued. My skin had gone leathery and dark, and I probably had skin cancer by now, but that was a concern for another day. The skirt was starting to get brittle, so I mentally added replacing it to my to-do list and lay down to a nap in the shade.

A stiff, damp breeze woke me in the late afternoon. It was coming from the west, rather than the east. A storm was brewing, and the dark skies to the west confirmed it. There wasn’t much I could do, besides ride it out. Everything that could blow away was gathered and secured to one of the posts of the hut. It swayed in the wind, and I knew the roof would be blown away again, but that was just normal. I hadn’t seen a storm quite like this one since the one that had stranded me here, though.

I carried the logbook, machete, hatchet, and spork with me to the center of the island to get as much protection from the storm as possible. The tops of the palms were already bending toward the east, dropping coconuts and losing fronds to the high winds. The rain started, coming in sideways, and I had to sit, lest I be blown over. I watched as the flags, and the pole they were tied to, flew away in the winds. Now there was nothing to differentiate this island to passing ships.

I knew, at least intellectually, that the flags made no difference. I’d been here for over ten years and never saw a ship. The shipping lanes were far away from here. Still, it snuffed out the little hope I’d had for rescue.

The ground grew muddy, and rivulets of water flowed in crazy directions all around me, driven by the shifting winds at ground level. The island was nearly flat, and the wind strong enough to push the water up whatever small gradient there was.

It was perhaps an hour later that the winds and rain stopped, and the noon sky cleared. I expected to see that I was in the eye of the storm, but it had passed me by, hitting me with the northern-most part of it. When I rose, the last foot of my braid was muddy from the point where it passed my hips.

The hut was in a shambles, only the corner posts, sturdy driftwood logs sunk deep in the earth, still standing. What I at first thought was my little catch of fish strewn across the beach turned out to be hundreds of live fish, flopping about where they’d been washed ashore.

Not one to turn down a free meal or ten, I gathered them all up, gutted them, and strung them up along with my original catch. “Thank you, storm,” I croaked. I hadn’t spoken in ages and my voice sounded foreign and strange to me.

The fish strung up, and the sun getting low on the horizon, I decided to leave rebuilding the hut for another day. I walked the island perimeter, combing the beach for anything useful that might have washed ashore. The first find was a hunk of plastic netting, brittle and degraded. I’d save that for a signal fire, as it would smoke terribly, but had no other use to me.

It was on the south side of the island that I found a treasure. A heavy-duty, waterproof, plastic box of the sort that one would carry electronics or a gun. It felt heavy enough to have something in it, possibly even a pistol. Rather than open it there, I carried it with me as I made my way back to the hut.

Exhaustion overtook me, and I set the box aside, to open in the morning. My sleep was deep, no dreams, and I woke to the rising sun far too soon. I checked on the fish, which would be sufficiently dried by the next day.

Finally, I opened the box, expecting to be disappointed. Instead, I found a small solar panel, and a satellite phone. The phone had no power, but the solar panel had a cable for charging it, so I plugged it in to do its thing. I would be rescued. All I needed to do was wait a few hours for a charge and then call…somebody.

I looked at the state of the hut. It wouldn’t matter once I made the call, but my skirt was gone, blown away in the storm. “Well,” I said aloud, my voice still croaky and unfamiliar, “I need to get ready for company.”

I spent the day gathering fronds for a skirt, and the hut, and then making the skirt. Once that was finished, I checked the sat phone’s charge. It was nearly half charged, and I figured I should let it charge all the way, so I started repairing the hut, taking a break only to chew on some mostly dried fish and a coconut.

The hut’s roof was finished, but I hadn’t started on the walls. The sun was setting, and the phone was completely charged. I picked up the phone and saw a button labeled “SOS.” I set the phone down and lay on the pile of remaining fronds. I ran a hand down my side, feeling my ribs. When they first started showing up, I worried that I was starving to death, but I’d gotten along just fine since then.

Am I really fine, though? The satellite phone sat next to me, untouched, and I wondered what was holding me back. Was it fear? Would I miss my little island? Why?

Some other part of me took over, turned on the phone, and pressed the SOS button. There was a beep, and then for a few tense seconds, no other sound.

“Maritime emergency response, do you require assistance?” The voice on the other end so surprised me that I was unable to speak for a moment. I hadn’t heard another human in so long. Tears ran down my face and I began to sob. “Emergency response, can you speak?”

“I—yes,” I croaked. “Hello.”

prompt: Start your story with someone accepting a dare.

available at Reedsy

…[P]eer power as an extrinsic force is a lot like radiation: a little goes a long way. 

Charles D. Hayes

Some people, perhaps even most, in the situation Sam found herself would wonder how they got there. She had no trouble pinpointing the moment that led her to be sitting in an interrogation room, wrists cuffed to the table, ankles shackled to the floor. It was the simple sentence: “I dare you.”

“I’m Special Agent Angela Mackey. You’re Samira?”

“Sam.”

“Samira Thibideaux, twenty-six, from New Orleans, Louisiana, correct?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Angela leaned forward on her elbows. “You understand you’re in a lot of trouble?”

Sam nodded.

“Why did you run up on the President like that?”

“I didn’t know she was there. I saw Hector and was going to get a surprise selfie with him.”

“Wearing a cape and a ski mask?”

“Luchador mask. El Torito, his favorite. It’s a joke. Call him, he’ll tell you. We prank each other all the time…or we used to, back in high school.”

“We’ll involve Senator Valencia when we feel it’s appropriate,” Angela said. “Tell me about your day. Start from the beginning.”

#

Sam picked at her breakfast; her roommates’ chatter a warm comfort. She had the day off and had no idea how she would spend it.

“Hey Sam, that senator you went to school with is in town today.” Alicia was the unofficial “mother” of the group. “You should see if he can get some time to have coffee or something, reconnect.”

“Ooh, if you can get a selfie with him, that would boost your Insta.” Trish was, to all appearances, a shallow, vain, young woman, with little interest in anything beyond fashion and fun. “But not a plain selfie, you should do something wild.”

“She doesn’t have to do anything wild or ‘boost her Insta.’ If Sam wants to hang out with her friend, she should.”

“What’s Henry in to?”

“His name is Hector, and he was always into Lucha Libre. His favorite wrestler since grade school was ‘El Torito’—a little guy who fought like a bull. He told me in third grade that he sometimes had nightmares that he’d made El Torito mad, and he was coming to get him.” Sam turned to her phone to text Hector and stop herself from divulging yet more personal information.

Alicia began collecting the dishes. “I have to work a double today. Sam, tell Hector I said ‘Hi.’ Trish, try not to burn down the house.”

“Hey! That was one time in college, the dorm didn’t burn down, and it wasn’t my fault. I’m not the one that left a rag on the hotplate.” Trish scrolled through her phone, absorbed in whatever took her fancy at the moment.

“But you are the one that plugged it in without checking,” Alicia said.

“I’ll handle the dishes,” Sam said. “Have a good day at work.” In short order, Sam had the kitchen back to its normal, pristine state.

“Your phone went off while you were in the kitchen.” Trish held something behind her back. “Your friend says he’ll be at the coffee shop on 14th at two this afternoon.”

“What’re you hiding?”

“Oh!” Trish showed her phone to Sam. “This is the guy your friend likes, right?”

Sam nodded. “Yeah, El Torito.”

Trish put her phone away. “Good. We’re going shopping before you meet your friend.”

“Why do you keep saying ‘your friend?’ His name is Hector.”

“Because it doesn’t sound like a real name when I say it.”

Sam sighed. “You’re weird. Why do we need to go shopping?”

“I know you think that Insta is a waste of your time, but it’s tied to your other online stuff, right?”

“Yeah, and?”

“How do you think you’ll get those freelance editing jobs if no one even knows you exist?”

“So, you’re trying to help?”

“I am.” Trish could be sincere and convincing when needed. “I’ll get you just enough internet fame to get jobs rolling into your inbox, hopefully without too many Insta creeps.”

“Fine, let’s go shopping. I guess I need to get something classier than my jeans and hoodies, huh?”

“Uh, yeah…classy.”

#

They stood in front of the store. Sam looked at Trish, unable to form the question that played across her face.

“Trust me, okay. This’ll be fun.” Trish gave a little tug to Sam’s hand and led her inside.

“This is a costume store.”

“And they have something waiting for you.” Trish walked in and called out in her best party-girl, carry-over-the-crowd voice, “Who’s got the El Tortilla mask?”

“El Torito.”

“Whatever, they know what I mean.”

Sam spent the next fifteen minutes feeling like the third wheel as Trish and the saleswoman talked about clubs, parties, brands, makeup, celebrities, and random trivia. Finally, the saleswoman brought out a bag containing a red cape and a luchador mask that was a close, if not perfect, replica of the mask worn by El Torito.

As they left the store, Trish having paid for the costume, Sam said, “Nice of her to let you use her employee discount. Why didn’t you introduce me?”

“Who? The chick that works there? I don’t know her.”

“I—I have no words.”

At the coffee shop, Sam looked in the bag, then back at Trish. “This is ridiculous. I’m not doing it.”

“You think he’ll be mad?”

“I mean, he’d probably think it’s pretty funny, but I’m not sure about it.”

Trish leaned close. “You’ve known the guy forever. You even know his favorite lecher-whatsit.”

“Luchador.”

“Whatever. This’ll blow up on Insta. And his team will probably tweet it, get you noticed. Unless you’re scared of him, or afraid he’s forgotten you.”

“I’m not scared of him, and we literally texted less than four hours ago. He hasn’t forgotten me.”

Trish leaned back and took a sip of her latte. She looked Sam in the eyes and said, “I dare you.”

“Ugh, fine.” Sam retreated to the restroom and put on the costume, waiting for the text from Trish that they were there. In a matter of minutes, it came: “They’re here. Streaming. Go time!”

She peeked out from the restroom and saw him, his back to her, with several other men and women in suits. She took a deep breath for courage, then burst into the main room shouting El Torito’s tag line, “¡Cuidado con los cuernos!”

Sam was no more than three steps into the room when she found herself face-down, covered by two large men who had her cuffed before she knew what had happened. The President’s shocked face swam into her vision and her heart dropped through the floor. “Hector! It’s me. I’m so sorry, Madame President!”

#

The interrogation room she found herself in was in a nondescript office building, not the police station. The fact that she hadn’t spoken to anyone other than Secret Service agents so far led her to believe that she was in a deeper hole than she could ever get out of.

“What happens now?” she asked. “Do I go to Guantanamo? Disappear?”

“Sit tight.” Angela left the room without saying anything else.

The minutes dragged on, and Sam feared the worst. She looked up at the camera in the corner of the room. “Please? Call Hector Valencia? Please?”

It was an hour later when a large man in a suit entered, carrying a briefcase. “Ms. Thibideaux? I’m an attorney. Let’s talk about your options.”

“No you’re not,” Sam said. “I saw you at the coffee shop. You’re trying to trick me into saying something incriminating, even though I haven’t done anything.”

He sighed and waved at the camera. The door opened again, and another agent entered, with Trish. She wasn’t in cuffs, but she looked like she was holding in tears.

“Hey, Sam.” Her voice was barely above a whisper.

“At least you got a funny stream out of it, at my expense.”

She looked down at her phone, dark and silent in her hand, and shook her head.

“I want a real attorney.” Sam would have crossed her arms if she weren’t chained to the table. “You’ll back me up in court, right Trish?”

“Please.” The agent who had claimed to be her attorney raised a hand. “You won’t see a courtroom.”

“Oh god, I’m going to disappear!”

The door opened and Hector walked in, holding the mask and cape. “All right, guys, that’s enough. Let her go. I win this one, Sam.”

The agent freed her wrists and ankles, chuckling quietly. “We figured out you weren’t a threat after the FBI searched your apartment, but Senator Valencia wanted us to wait until he got here to tell you.”

“After they searched…?”

“They finished up about fifteen minutes ago,” the agent said. “The senator has your phone, by the way.”

“When you wanted to meet up, I knew you’d try something silly, but not this silly.” Hector handed her the costume and looked at Trish. “Thanks for not spilling the beans before I got here.”

Trish broke down, laughing so hard tears streamed down, smearing her mascara. “Sorry, sorry. Can’t stop laughing. The stream went viral! And the President just tweeted that it was quote, ‘An ill-timed prank, no harm done,’ end quote.”

Hector gave Sam a hug. “It’s good to see you after so long.”

“You too. Sorry I couldn’t surprise you with El Torito the way I wanted to.”

“Oh, I was surprised, all right. Put that on, and let’s get a couple selfies for your fans.”

“My what?”

“They’re calling you ‘La Ternera’ online.”

“What is that?”

“The calf. You are smaller than even El Torito.” Hector put an arm around her shoulder and snapped a selfie with her phone.

Sam was glad of the luchador mask to cover her blush of anger at herself and knowing that a friend she respected had seen her mess up a simple prank so terribly.

“Let’s get some without…,” Hector reached for her mask and lifted it off. “Are you all right, Sam?” Hector’s voice was soft. “I went too far, didn’t I?”

Sam sniffled, then chuckled. “I guess it’s payback for the fake murder victim in the back of your car, senior year.” She broke off the pose and tried to fix her hair and compose herself.

“I never got the fake blood out of the seats,” he said. “It makes a great story, though.”

“Truce?”

Hector pulled her back in for another couple selfies with her phone. “Truce. I’ll be down for Christmas. We’ll have a big get-together. Craw-fish boil, gumbo, red beans and rice, tamales, gingerbread cookies, and buñuelos.”

“You know your family has the weirdest Christmas menu ever, right?”

“I know, but you love it.”

Trish was typing furiously on her phone. “This is so awesome! I can’t wait for Christmas! Alicia says she’s down too!” She paused and looked at the others. “I mean, um, am I…are we invited?”

“My friends,” Sam said. “They won’t let me be, and I’d never hear the end of it.”

“Hmm.” Hector leaned in close and whispered to Sam, “Only if we can prank her together. She told me this was her idea.”

“You’re right.” Sam stood straight. “Tell Alicia that both of you are invited. Details when it gets closer to Christmas.”

Trish returned to typing on her phone. “This is exciting! I’m having Christmas dinner with a Senator!”

“Gentlemen, could you escort the ladies out?” Hector asked the agents. “I need to get back to my schedule, and I’m sure they have other places to be. Thanks again for waiting for me.”

#

Alicia returned in the evening to find Trish picking up the items scattered about the living room. “What the hell? Where’s Sam?”

“I didn’t do it, FBI did. Sam’s hiding in her room. She’s a little overwhelmed with the whole La Termina thing.”

“La Ternera.”

“Whatever.” Trish pointed at the open bottle of wine on the counter. “Her friend left that for us as an apology.”

Alicia sighed and poured herself a glass of wine. “I’ll go calm her down.”

“Hey, can you, um, tell her I’m really sorry. And not just for the dare, but the laughing too.” Trish sniffled. “It was scary, but I couldn’t stop laughing. I think I might have hurt her feelings.”

Alicia heard a muffled snort from Sam’s room. “I’ll tell her, but I think she’s okay.”