Tag: comedy

Trunk Stories

Helicopter

prompt: Write about a backstabbing (literal or metaphorical) gone wrong.

available at Reedsy

JJ was unsure about most things, but not this, not now; he was so far beyond unsure he began to doubt his own existence. Maybe he was just a figment of a fever dream, about to do this, not a real person after all. It made sense…what person doesn’t even know how to pronounce their first name?

“JJ, you sure about this?” Martina, his co-conspirator, asked.

“Yeah, I’m sure,” he lied. “I’ve considered and planned a contingency for every possible twist.” That, at least, he was certain of. His constant concerns of “what if…” made him an excellent strategist and analyst — at least when given enough time.

“In that case, I’ve got your back,” she said.

As JJ waited to be called in to the inquest, the clock taunted him, time stretching out. A young man carrying a clipboard called out, “Detective Martina Simes,” and she followed him in, leaving JJ to wait by himself.

He juggled dozens of possible scenarios in his mind, from the most likely to the absurd. No matter how the waves broke when he was called in, he would make sure that he and Martina would never again have to work for the overbearing Captain Helen Monroe. Behind her back, the squad called her “Captain Helicopter Momroe” or just “Mom” for the way she micromanaged everything.

If she had let him do his job, they wouldn’t be in the situation they were in now. He gripped the folder he carried tighter. With the proof he had there, Monroe wouldn’t be in her position any longer. At this stage in her career, they’d probably move her to a desk somewhere to wait out her retirement.

He wondered what Martina was telling them. She was there when it went down and was a victim of how wrong everything went. He knew there were others on the squad that would try to protect the captain, with the idea that if they didn’t, they were a traitor somehow. Martina, though, was still recovering from the injuries she endured in the incident…and she said she’d back him up.

Time continued to drag. JJ let the thoughts he was juggling rest. There was nothing left to do but stick to his guns and react to each falling chip as planned. He was interrupted by a young man holding a clipboard.

“Officer Price? Your first name…is it Jake…or Jack? Looks like I have a typo on my list.”

“That’s me.”

“So, which is it? Jake or Jack?”

“JJ.”

“Okay, but what is your legal first name?”

“Just like it is on your paper. J – A – E – K.” He shrugged. “It’s a typo on my birth certificate that was never corrected.”

“So how did your mother—” the young man began.

“Mom called me JJ. My dad didn’t call me anything because he wasn’t around. Teachers called me Jake or Jack or Jay-ek and I just let them, since it didn’t matter.” JJ sighed. “And before you ask, I don’t pronounce my first name, so you just call me whichever makes you happy.”

“Okay, then. I’ll add a note here and get back in there. You’re up next.”

JJ entered the room when he was called in as “Detective Jay-ek Price.” Commissioner Dina Davis sat between the Vice Chief of SWAT Carlos Ortiz and Soo Kim, the Chief of Police. The presence of the commissioner was unexpected, but perhaps warranted.

Captain Monroe sat behind a smaller desk to one side with a department advocate. An inquest was not unlike a bench trial, and the one under investigation was afforded representation. It looked like she hadn’t bothered to ask the union for a real lawyer.

JJ took his place behind the other small desk, next to the investigator from Internal Affairs, as the commissioner told him to take his seat. He looked over and caught Monroe’s eye where he saw something he didn’t expect — defeat.

“Detective Price,” the SWAT Vice Chief asked, “what is your primary role?”

“I’m assigned to data analysis in the nineteenth precinct.”

“Are you,” he asked, “assigned to evaluate and advise on tactical matters?” Ortiz asked.

“Not officially, but I often help when I—”

“Thank you.”

Chief Kim turned toward him with a bored frown. “What were you doing on the sixteenth of February this year, at or around nine-thirty A.M.?”

He laid the folder on the desk and put his hand on it. “I was printing the documents in this folder for Captain Monroe.”

The commissioner raised a hand. “Are those the same documents the captain has already showed us? The ones printed off at…,” she looked down at the pile of papers in front of her, “09:32 A.M. on the printer that resides just outside the door to Captain Monroe’s office?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He hadn’t expected the captain to hand over his analysis of her tactical operation to the inquest. It was like she wanted to fail.

The three of them conferred among themselves quietly for a moment. Commissioner Davis nodded and said, “Detective Price, if you would, walk us through this document in your own words.”

This was it. He could show that Helen “Helicopter Mom” Monroe was not the sort to be leading a precinct. When he finished, she would be finished.

“In this document, I analyzed the tactical plan for taking down the drug lab, as coordinated by Captain Monroe with SWAT.” He opened the folder to the diagrams he’d added and pointed to each item as he went.

“I pointed out that coverage in this alley was impossible without removing the dumpsters here and here first. I recommended at least two shooters on these rooftops here, and here.”

He flipped the page over to the diagram on the back. “Finally, I concluded that unless these two neighboring buildings were secured, the tactical team was open to ambush from either the underground service tunnels here, or a makeshift bridge from the scaffolding on this building here.”

Vice Chief Ortiz leaned forward, resting his chin on his fists. “You say you figured all that out just from looking at the original tac plan?”

“Yes, sir, and a quick look at the online maps street view.”

Chief Ortiz and Chief Kim both looked at Commissioner Davis and nodded. She looked at them both, then back at JJ.

“Officer Price, your evaluation matches what happened on the ground, and, as Captain Monroe has already informed us, if she had waited just another minute for it, Detective Simes would not have been injured, they wouldn’t have had time to torch the lab, and we wouldn’t have lost our prime suspect.”

JJ was stunned. The captain used his best ammo against herself. What was she thinking?

Davis continued. “Given the stellar career of Captain Monroe to date, and her willingness to admit her errors and learn from them…and given your tactical know-how that hasn’t been properly put to use thus far, we are reassigning both of you.

“You will remain at your precinct, but your jobs are changing. Captain Monroe is hereby promoted to Vice Chief in charge of our new Major Crimes Unit. Until such time as her position as precinct captain is filled, she will continue to carry those duties as well.

“Detective Price is hereby promoted to Detective Sergeant Price and moved to Major Crimes as well. You will be in charge of the detectives and will head up analysis and tactical planning as well as cooperation with SWAT. In short, you will be Vice Chief Monroe’s right hand.”

Commissioner Dina Davis banged the gavel on the desk, and they all stood while the “judges” left. JJ looked at the Internal Affairs rep that had sat next to him without making a sound.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” he asked.

“Captain Monroe started the inquest by telling us everything she did wrong. I had nothing to add.” With that, the small man from Internal Affairs left.

“JJ,” Monroe said. “I know you thought this would be the end of my career…hell, I thought so, too. It seems we both ended up somewhere we didn’t expect. If you’ll show me a modicum of respect in Major Crimes, I’ll do my best not to ‘Helicopter Mom’ you. I mean, if I don’t respect you, neither will the detectives you’re meant to be in charge of.”

“You know about—”

“Of course I know. Just because I’m a Captain…Vice Chief now, doesn’t mean I stop being a detective.”

JJ closed the folder and dropped it in the “shred bin” – the locked waste receptacle that was emptied into a shredder every day. “I suppose you know I was planning to…,” he couldn’t finish the sentence.

“I know what you were planning, but I wasn’t going to let you. If you did, you’d be a pariah. If you’ll throw your captain under the bus, how could your coworkers trust you? What kind of leader lets their people make themselves hated by their peers?”

“In other words, you were still being Captain Helicopter Momroe.”

She nodded. “I was. To you, and Martina, and Kavin, and a few others who had some harsh words. Like I said, I’ll ease up on you, but not on anyone else. If I’m to be Mom to Major Crimes, you’re going to have to step up and be the dad.”

JJ pursed his lips. “But I can be a cool dad, right? Like the one that lets them get away with stuff?”

“As long as it doesn’t put them in harm’s way, impact their job or go so far as to undermine your own authority, I don’t see why not. Now get out of here and take the rest of the day,” she looked at her watch, “all thirty minutes of it — off, Sergeant. I’m sure we’ll have a ton of paperwork to do in the morning.”

“Yes, mom.”

“Excuse me?”

“It was…uh…yes ma’am with a British accent?”

“Try harder. See you in the morning, squad daddy.”

Trunk Stories

Being Better

prompt: Write a story in the form of diary entries, written by someone who has set themselves a month-long challenge.

available at Reedsy

Day 1:

Today is the day! In order to be a better person, today, I start my month of careful speech. Rather than be the asshole who says the first thing that comes to mind, I’ll take a moment to think about what I’m about to say. By the end of the month, it should be habit. This is the beginning of the end for my mouth getting me in trouble.

Day 2:

I’m glad it’s still the weekend. I had to catch myself multiple times yesterday and today. It’s not like the TV cares, but I wanted to yell at the talking heads on the news so bad! Grrrr. I was able to calm myself, though.

Day 3:

I got a lot of strange looks at work today. Rather than my usual reaction to things, I was careful with my words. The saying, “bite your tongue” that means to not say what you were going to? Yeah, turns out that doing that for real works. Not hard or anything, just enough to remind myself of the goal.

Day 7:

They actually listened to what I had to say in the meeting today. I wanted to tell them they were so stupid they were lucky they remembered to breathe, but I didn’t. I thought about it carefully, and told them, point by point, what parts of their design were likely to fail, and how to mitigate those risks. Yeah, I might have taught some of them a thing or two. It felt good, even though I think I might be developing an ulcer, and I have a sore spot on my tongue.

Day 9:

The constant pain in my gut has eased up. Probably because I spent the entire weekend in bed reading. No TV, no internet, just a good book. Not looking forward to going back to work tomorrow, but I’m still doing great on my month.

Day 12:

Hump day, and this week already feels three times too long. I was in line for my coffee and this — cuts in front of me. (See, I’m even censoring myself in my journal.) Anyway, I muttered something about his questionable legitimacy and that his head was in a physically impossible location. I didn’t say it at full volume, though. Still, it slipped out and I realized I needed to do better. So, I tapped the guy on the shoulder and said, “I’m sorry I just said something mean about you, I’m trying to do better. I was angry in the moment when you cut in front of me.”

He just looked at me like I was insane and stayed right there in front of me in line. I’m not sure if that’s when the pain in my gut came back, but that’s when I felt it, a knot of fire. I bit my tongue so hard I drew blood. It really hurts to drink anything hot or cold or eat anything at all.

Day 16:

I spent the weekend in agony. My tongue finally stopped hurting enough to eat a bit, and it seemed to help my guts, but only a little. Maybe I just need to let it all out without a target. I mean, I’m still doing great good on my month of being less of an asshole. There was the little thing on Wednesday, and then Friday, when he did it to me again, I told him, “I’m trying not to say the first the terrible thing that comes to mind all the time, but I seriously hope your day is cut short by a tragic accident.”

Day 20:

The knot of fire in my gut has grown a burning spike straight up the center of my chest. Everything I swallow hurts. I guess the sore on my tongue is just the new normal. It won’t heal. My boss noticed something was wrong with me. “You’re clearly stressed about something,” she said. She told me to take a long weekend and de-stress. I couldn’t even think of any comeback, due to feeling so awful. It was only while I was driving home that my mind kicked in and said “Gee, thanks for that, Captain Obvious. I’ll call you the next time I need you to tell me something I already know.”

Day 23:

I’ve lost weight. Had to add a new hole to my belt to make it fit. Probably because I can’t eat, can’t sleep, and everything puts me on edge. I cursed out the TV today because it decided it needed to reboot in the middle of a show. Smart TV my ass. But the TV doesn’t really count, does it? I mean, it’s just an inanimate thing. In that moment, I felt a tiny bit better. Still, I felt like I cheated on my month of not being the instant asshole — which ruined the good feeling.

Day 26:

I’ve decided that the TV, and other inanimate things, don’t count — as long as no one else hears. My computer was being a pain today. I waited until everyone had left for the break room and whispered to it. “You stupid piece of ‘made in China’ shit. Taiwan is a country. Suck on that. If you don’t act right, I’m gonna plug a USB cable into the wall socket.”

That helped a little. Someone saw me and asked what I was doing. “Just a little one-sided conversation with my computer,” I answered. They looked at me like I was contagious or something. I thought terrible things about them but didn’t say anything. My tongue started bleeding again.

Day 28:

I almost ripped the line-cutting jerk a new one today. I wanted so much to tell him he should jump off a cliff instead of jumping the line. The coppery taste of blood in my mouth stopped me, and the pain in my gut made me decide to skip the coffee.

The month is almost over, but I’ve been scheduled to come in Sunday and cover for someone else — in customer support. It’s literally the one job I hate so much that until they promised I wouldn’t ever be scheduled for it, I wouldn’t accept the job. So much for promises.

I think I cursed out everything in my apartment when I got home. I’m sorry, apartment, it’s not your fault. The nerve of this fucking company…. (Companies are inanimate, so they don’t count.)

Day 30:

I almost made it…almost. I gritted my teeth, used my best customer service voice and answered the same five, stupid questions over and over and over. Then it happened.

There were no calls in the queue, so I set my status to offline and went to the break room to get some ice to suck on — trying to get my tongue to stop bleeding. It was lunch time anyway, so no big deal, right? Wrong.

That idiot of a shift leader told me to get back on the lines. I told him it was lunch time, and he had the audacity to say that I obviously wasn’t eating, so I should get back online so someone else could eat.

The fire in my belly finally reached my throat and I gave up on the month. I don’t think I’ve ever so eloquently told anyone how I felt about them in the moment.

First, I called him a “jumped-up, junior-hall-monitor-wannabe.” I told him that if he was that worried about it, he should be online. Then, I let him know that I was well within my rights to take my lunch break, even if all I’m eating is ice. The next thing I said was that for his lunch. he should probably stick to the “paleo diet” since the Paleolithic was the last time there was a branch anywhere in his family tree. I’m sure I said some more after that, but I don’t remember it all.

I almost made it a month, and it almost killed me. There’s got to be something I can to do be better, but this wasn’t it. I saw online that it’s healthier to express your emotions than to hold them in. I believe it. In fact, that’s what I’m doing next month: expressing my true emotions. I’m going to be completely open and honest about how I’m feeling.

I’ll also be looking for a new job, since I got fired today. It seems the junior-hall-monitor-wannabe’s stick of a family tree includes the HR director. If I’d known that, I would’ve let him know how I feel about nepotism and told him to go cry to aunt mommy.

Trunk Stories

Ring Ring

prompt: Set your story in a world where contacting the dead is as easy as making a phone call.

available at Reedsy

Since the invention of the etherphone, the “Phone to the Other Side”, Ethan had a pretty good gig. The sign outside his office said, “Contact loved ones on the other side: $5.00 / minute or partial minute.”

The first minute barely made up for the hassle of finding the correct number, but the calls were never that short. Except, Ethan thought, for that one lady who only ever says, ‘Fart!’, then hangs up. Still, every minute over the first two hours of calls each day was pure profit…the portion that he lived on. Some days, though, it took most of the day to make those first two hours.

He looked outside the office and saw a line already forming. “Customer service face, Ethan,” he said to himself, turning on the “Open” sign and unlocking the door.

For the most part, his clientele was polite, waiting in line for their turn. An occasional panicked customer would try to cut in line with some urgent matter they “had to address immediately.” He handled those on a case-by-case basis. Most were not so urgent, but sometimes — more like rarely — they were.

Today he was lucky, as the panicked customer was the first in line. Ethan cut her off as she tried to explain why it was so urgent. “Look, ma’am, you’re first in line, and every second you explain your problem is another second I’m not connecting you to your loved ones.”

She calmed down and Ethan took down all the particulars he’d need to find the correct number. He found the number, dialed it, and handed her the phone as soon as they answered before stepping out of the call booth into the main office and shutting the heavy door. He respected his clients’ privacy, after all.

She emerged, teary-eyed and defeated after ten minutes. He told her some platitudes meant to make her feel better about the situation, after she paid the fifty dollars she owed for the call. He wasn’t heartless, but he was running a business.

The Fart Lady was next in line. At least he didn’t have to look up the number anymore. It had taken a few times, but even her one-second calls were now no hassle. With the number memorized, it was a matter of muscle memory at this point to punch it in.

No sooner had he handed her the phone than she yelled, “Fart!” and hung up. She handed him a five-dollar bill and a one “as a tip”, grinning like the cat that ate the canary, and walked out. He wasn’t sure what was going on with her, but aside from her bizarre calls to her “long-lost love” on the other side, she seemed perfectly normal.

It didn’t matter, Ethan was content to let people be themselves and run his business. After taxes, rent, utilities, and the costs of the etherphone, he was almost comfortable, and that’s all that mattered. He sighed at the thought of himself as yet another cog in the machinery of late-stage capitalism.

Those sorts of thoughts never occupied his mind for long, as business was usually good enough that there wasn’t much in the way of time to think. There were times, though, when it slowed down, that his thoughts grew grim.

If someone else in town were to get an etherphone and provide lower-priced competition, it would hurt. He might have to give up his studio apartment and live in the office if he were to reduce prices. At least he had a four-year lease on the etherphone, with payments fixed at $10,000 per month. The current lease rates were higher.

He finished out his day, turned the sign off and locked the door. He was counting out the till, and preparing his deposit when it rang. The etherphone…rang!

Ethan rose from the stool behind the register and stared into the open call room at the etherphone. It continued to ring. It doesn’t work that way! He ran to the call room and slammed the door. He could still hear the ringing, muted by the heavy door.

With shaking hands, he rushed through his nightly duties and ran from the office, the phone still ringing. He hurried to the bank, only calming once he made the deposit. He looked at his reflection in the mirror above the night deposit slot, meant to alert users of anyone behind them.

“Ethan, calm down. The phone doesn’t work that way. You’re imagining the whole thing.” He didn’t believe it, but saying it with his confident, customer-service face, made him — somehow — begin to believe his reflection.

He laughed. “Hallucinations, that’s what it is,” he told himself. “You’re over-worked and over-tired. You just need a rest. Yeah.”

By the time he returned to open the office the next morning, he’d almost convinced himself that it wasn’t real. He was still relieved to open the door to silence. Opening the call room door took a moment of steeling himself against what he might find. His relief was tripled when the call room looked completely normal, the etherphone sitting quietly on the small desk.

He opened early as the line was already forming, and the etherphone was in use more than not that day. The first of the month was always the busiest, with everyone ready to spend a portion of their paycheck on talking to the other side.

Ethan turned off the sign while the last caller was still in the call room. He knocked on the door, cracked it open and pointed at his watch. The man on the phone nodded and concluded his call.

It was while Ethan was counting out the man’s change that it happened again. Ethan noted the time; 6:10 PM. The man took his change and ran, his face as pale as Ethan was sure his own was.

Rather than count the till and make a deposit, he chose to lock the register and deal with it in the morning. This was no hallucination, the customer had heard it too. He drank himself to a broken, uneasy sleep. Ethan’s dreams were filled with hideous aberrations crawling out of the etherphone, coming to smother him.

He arrived early, only opening the door after putting his ear to it and assuring himself that it wasn’t still ringing. He counted the till, prepared a deposit slip, and put the deposit bag in the small floor safe.

He closed early that evening, counting the till and adding the second deposit to the previous one in the bag. He stood by the front door, watching the time. At 6:10 PM, it began ringing again, and Ethan rushed out the door, locking it behind him and running to the bank.

The entire week continued like that; even the Fart Lady giving him a five-dollar tip for her one-second call couldn’t pull him out of the low-level dread that grew to terror as 6:10 PM neared. Every night, he stood just outside the door, waiting to hear the etherphone ring, and every night it did.

Ethan was closed on Sundays, but he was in the office this time. He determined that he’d have to answer, otherwise, whoever or whatever was on the other side would keep trying to contact him. And why shouldn’t they be able to call? he wondered. Because the company that leased the phone said so? There has to be some sort of device on the other side that makes the connection.

After several shots of liquid courage, Ethan sat down in the call room, ready to find out who was calling from the other side. 6:10 PM rolled around sooner than he expected, and the phone rang.

He lifted the phone with a trembling hand and answered. “E—Ethan’s Other-Side, this is Ethan.”

The woman’s voice on the other end was clear. She sounded young. “Is this Ethan Carmichael?”

He cleared his throat. “It is. Ho—how did you call me? This phone is supposed to be one-way. We call the living, not—”

“Mister Carmichael, we’ve been trying to reach you about your extended car warranty….”

Trunk Stories

According to the God of Plans

prompt: Write about a god desperately trying to get their chosen hero to follow the path they set out for them.

available at Reedsy

“You finally chose a hero?”

– “Yes, see? There she goes now.”

“A human?”

– “What? Why is that even a question?”

“If you want an unpredictable hero…I guess.”

– “I’ve lined up everything in her life to lead her to only one conclusion. She will take up the mantle of my chosen one and bring about my age.”

“If you say so.”

– “Don’t be a jerk. You had your age with the dwarves. Our sister had her time with the elves. Cousin had her season with the dark elves. It’s my turn.”

“Sure. You know, you could’ve picked a troll, an orc…hell, even a fae is easier to control.”

– “Shush. She’s getting ready to make the first choice that will put her on the path I’ve laid out for her.”

“Oh, she’s praying. Let’s listen in.”

~ “Gods, I know Mom keeps pushing for me to study Political Science and follow in her footsteps, but the more she does, the less I want to. I have three options and that’s only one of them. If only I had a sign.”

– “Perfect. I’ll just part this cloud, a ray of light falling right…there. See, piece of cake.”

~ “Okay, even for the gods that’s a little too on the nose. I won’t be bullied into a course of study. Forget poli-sci. Law school or engineering…? Math…nah. Law it is.”

“Ha ha! Not going your way? This is rich!”

– “That’s okay…I can…I can work with that. It’s just a minor tweak to the plan, but I can still get her where I need her.”

“We’ll see, second-favorite sister.”

– “Second favorite? Wow, that’s low, seeing how your only other sister literally banished you and held you in chains for a thousand years until I fought to free you. But what should I expect from my second-favorite brother?”

“But I’m your only…touché. Well played, sister, well played.”

– “Here we go. I put the man I knew would most appeal to her where I needed him…and they met. He’ll get her involved in politics.”

“Are you sure about that?”

– “Absolutely. I can see her desire eroding her mistrust. I still don’t understand why she doesn’t trust anyone, but oh well.”

“Maybe because everyone in her life seems to be pushing her in a direction in which she doesn’t feel called?”

– “Look, look! She’s joining him for a political rally. I’ll drop some dopamine and serotonin and she’ll….”

“What? She’ll what?”

– “She…she just slapped him and joined the protesters. No! She’s never going to get where I need her from that side.”

“Oh, sister, you crack me up! You just had to pick a human champion, didn’t you?”

– “But…why would she go against everything she was brought up to believe?”

“She was brought up in the beliefs that you thought would turn her in your chosen direction?”

– “Yes.”

“But did she ever believe it, or was it just…the default?”

– “I thought she truly believed it. No. This is just a phase…a rebellious streak. She’ll grow out of it and come around.”

“Sure. Keep telling yourself that. By the way, seems like that rush of brain chemicals got her interested in the woman leading the protest.”

– “She’s interested in a woman?”

“Did you even study your hero after you chose her? Have you studied humans at all?”

– “No, I get it…it just goes against—”

“Everything she’s been raised to believe. Right. You know less about humans than I thought.”

– “Oh, wait…this is a generational thing, isn’t it? Okay, I can make some changes, but I’ll still get her where I need her.”

“You think so?”

– “You’ll see.”

“Most of your followers are Brown Party. What makes you think a Yellow Party leader will be what you need?”

– “I don’t care about their politics, I just need a hero in power that can take on my avatar and present me to the masses. That human is the one that has been designed to do just that.”

“Just because she can take on your avatar, doesn’t mean she will.”

– “She is genetically predisposed to leadership. I just need to make sure she sees that.”

“What are you doing now?”

– “There, see? One little nudge and her new girlfriend is begging her to speak at the protests, to take a leadership role.”

“Heh. Good luck.”

– “Do you think I’m stupid? I know what I’m doing.”

“Oh, really? Looks like she just broke up with her girlfriend. You shouldn’t have made her push.”

– “Gah! That’s fine, it’s fine, I—I’ll map out a whole new plan for her.”

“Sister, please…stop! I can’t keep laughing this much!”

– “Fine. I’ll let her finish her schooling before I intervene again. Fast forward.”

“Wow, she’s just…three girlfriends, two boyfriends…and none of them ever managed to get close. You really messed her up.”

– “I did not. She’ll never be happy until she gives in and follows the plan that’s laid out in her DNA.”

“If you say so.”

– “Let’s see where she’s applying to work. Yes, either of these two firms will groom her to a political career. They will both make an offer, and she can decide.”

“Ooh, another prayer. She hasn’t done that in a while.”

~ “Gods, I know you like to meddle, just stop, please. Let me accomplish this on my own.”

“Oops. You might’ve just messed up, sister.”

– “Nonsense. She doesn’t have any way to know who I’ve influenced or haven’t.”

“She’s read the offers, and now she’s going through the rejects pile again.”

– “No, you silly woman. They rejected you on their own. Just take one of the offers.”

“She’s not listening. Look, she’s gone to one of the places that rejected her and asked for an appointment.”

– “Why did that one reject her? Her protest involvement? Something else?”

“Money, I think.”

– “Wait, what is she doing now?”

“I think she just volunteered.”

– “So…she’s just going to work for them for free?”

“Yes.”

– “I can still make this work. It may take a little longer to get her into politics, but a background as a volunteer will look good to the other humans.”

“Oh, I don’t think getting into politics will be an issue.”

– “Why, brother, are you coming around?”

“Not at all. I am trying not to laugh at you, though. Maybe we should listen to her prayers for the Day of Thanks.”

– “Sure.”

~ “Gods, thank you for another year, and for the hardships I’ve endured, and thank you for finally butting out and letting me make my own way. Now, I prepare myself to help launch a new political party—”

– “See?”

“Shh!”

~ “…the Blue Party, devoted to the separation of church and state. Gods, priests, and avatars have their place in the temples, but not in the ruling of nations.”

“I—I’m…trying…not…to…laugh….”

– “Shut up.”

“If she gets into power and accepts your avatar, you’ll become the god of hypocrites.”

– “I am the God of Plans! I am Planning; I am Order! This is outrageous! I—I can still save this…maybe.”

“I don’t think so sister.”

– “Is it too late to pick a new hero? Maybe a troll?”

“You had your chance, now it’s our cousin’s turn again. And after watching you, she’s already chosen a human, too.”

– “But why?”

“She is the God of Chaos; this way, she figures she can just sit back and let it happen.”

Trunk Stories

The Captain’s Garden

prompt: Write a story inspired by the concept of arigata-meiwaku — a favor that turns out to be a nuisance for its recipient.

available at Reedsy

The gardens were far more lush and inviting than they’d ever been. A heady aroma of flowers, evergreens, and loam greeted every visitor. Butterflies flitted between the flowers, worms and isopods burrowed in the dirt and converted detritus to nourishing soil. Beneficial fungus and bacteria worked together with the bugs and plants, while springtails kept their tiny selves busy preventing runaway fungus. A water feature in the center housed spirulina punching far above its weight class in converting CO2 to oxygen.

Jack looked on the garden with a sense of pride. It had taken him months to put together, and the enclosed environment meant that it rarely required any water input. There was enough evaporation that condensation formed on the walls and ceiling, following small channels that returned the water to where it would filter down through the landscape to the water feature.

He held the soft broom he’d been using to clean the raised, hard surface paths. The paths offered access to every part of the garden and allowed for aimless wandering with something new to see around every turn.

Jack put the broom back in the maintenance cubby. He took a last deep breath before exiting through the sealed bulkhead door to the main hallway.

“Doctor Halver to the bio lab…Doctor Jack Halver to the bio lab.” The voice on the intercom was that of the captain. Why she would be in the lab and why she would be so annoyed was beyond him. It was plain, though, in the way she said his name.

He trotted past the galley, the gym, and the infirmary to the labs. The captain was holding a glass of water and stared at him with an intensity that caused him to fear for his health.

“Yes, ma’am. How can I help you?”

She waited until the door closed with a solid click before she spoke. “You can tell me what the hell this is in my water, and how it got there.”

He stepped closer and looked at the small insect drowned in her glass. “It’s a fungus gnat. It must’ve come in on the last shipment of soil. Between the Bacillus thuringiensis israelensis and the springtails, they won’t be around much longer.”

“How did it get into my quarters, then?”

“Considering they don’t fly well, when was the last time you visited the garden?”

Her eyes narrowed. “I haven’t been since you started your project,” she said with unveiled annoyance.

Jack thought for a moment, trying to remember who had been to the garden recently. “Wait, did Jen visit on Tuesday…sometime after one?”

“Why? I mean….” She took a deep breath. “Jack, your sister and I are—”

“I know, Cari. I’ve known since we left port when you two were still trying to be discreet about it. It’s just that I caught her stepping off the path and had to reprimand her.”

Cari laughed. “Reprimand? Did you tell off your big sister?”

Jack shook his head. “No, I reminded her that the signs to stay on the path apply to her, too. I entered it in the logs, since it could have an impact on the health of the garden.”

He pursed his lips. “But, yeah, I guess I did tell her off for making footprints that I had to fix. That was around one on Tuesday.”

“Yeah, she brought me a flower from the garden.”

“I thought she was hiding something. Mystery solved.”

Cari set her glass on the counter. “I don’t want to see any more of these anywhere on this ship.”

“I’ve done everything possible to get rid of them, and they’ll be completely gone in less than two generations…six weeks, max. Until then, no cutting flowers, and next time someone wants one, have me do it so the plants aren’t damaged in the process.”

Cari crossed her arms. “Why did you go to all the trouble to build the garden in the first place? We already have the algae CO2 scrubbers, we have plenty of oxygen, and it takes up room that could be used for xenobiology experiments.”

“I heard you talking to Jen in the galley about how much you missed the woods. I thought maybe a little bit of home would make you happy. You seriously haven’t been to the garden yet?”

“I haven’t had the time.”

“Next time you have five minutes, just take a short walk through. Please.”

Before she could respond, a shriek came from the cabins. Jen’s voice came over the intercom. “Captain Smalls to the Ambassadorial Suite…Captain Smalls to the Ambassadorial Suite.”

“What now?” Cari groaned even as she broke into a run, Jack following close behind.

The shriek was repeated with a string of panicked pleading in a language spoken by no human tongue. Cari opened the door to the suite with her override to find a human security guard in a protective pose in front of the ambassador. The ambassador’s guards were nowhere to be seen.

The ambassador was an alien of the species humans called dracos, based on their vague semblance to dragons or reptiles. He was a foot taller than the guard, who stood in front of him, doing his best not to laugh.

“What’s going on?”

The guard took a breath and tried to maintain his composure. “The ambassador was startled by an insect. I was going to get it, but he insisted I stand guard instead.”

By this time, the ambassador had turned to face the wall, trembling in fear. The guard pointed across the room. Jack touched a flower in a vase on the shelf, made sure Cari saw him, and raised an eyebrow. From there, he looked around until he found the source of the commotion.

“There you are. Did you hitch all the way down here, you little devil?” Jack picked it up. “It’s not an insect. It’s an isopod. They don’t bite and they can’t hurt you. Nothing to fear.”

He held the creature in the palm of his hand. “See, cute, aren’t they? Like tiny little tanks.” Turning his attention back to the isopod, he said, “There’s nothing here for you to eat. Let’s get you back to the garden.”

As Jack turned to leave with the garden’s escapee, the ambassador collapsed into a heap of arms and legs, his tail wrapped tightly around. Jack knew he’d be hearing about this, for sure.

He carried the creature back to the garden and put it near the base of a plant. “Look, dead leaves for you to eat, and maybe you’ll find a mate here. Nothing for you in the quarters.”

He sent a low-priority message to the captain to meet him on the bench by the water feature in the garden. Jack figured that he could soften the blow by having her chew him out here. She hadn’t seen it yet, so maybe once she did, she’d be a little more lenient.

He sent another to his sister, letting her know how much trouble she’d caused. That done, he settled on the bench, taking in the fresh air. The garden had been a labor of love, and something to help the captain, but this would probably be the last time he’d see it like this.

Cari walked in as the lights were starting their evening dimming phase. The temperature would drop a few degrees through the “night” cycle. Everything was orchestrated to provide the plants and soil helpers the closest they could get to natural conditions in a spinning gravity.

She took a deep breath and sat next to Jack. “I….”

“Sorry, captain. I can sterilize the whole thing and clear it out.”

“No, Jack, don’t. I…the ambassador and his guards are horribly embarrassed and everyone present has signed a non-disclosure agreement, except you. You’ll find it on your desk. Do it as soon as you leave here. His chief guard was threatening suicide for her failure, but I managed to talk her down.

“So, no interplanetary incident…officially. Our security is walking the ambassador through the garden now. He wanted to see what the flowers look like on the plants. I think seeing the whatchamacallits in their environment is helping.”

“The isopods. Any idea what caused the reaction?”

“I think it might be something like humans and spiders. We’re still trying to get psychological and phobia data on the dracos without being obvious about it.” She took another deep breath, shut her eyes, and relaxed into the bench. “You did a good job. I could swear I’m by the creek behind the house.”

Jack put a hand on her shoulder. “I’m just glad you want to keep it. I’d hate to space all this.”

“I noticed butterflies when I walked in. How did you get those?”

“They must’ve come in on the trees. They were wrapped up, so any chrysalises would’ve been hidden. The sad part is, without a winter cycle, they likely won’t reproduce.”

The sound of a small squeak caught their attention. The ambassador, flanked by two ship’s security was pointing at something on the ground. Jack thought, based on the location, it might even be the same isopod that had so frightened him before.

To the ambassador’s credit, though, he managed to regain and maintain his composure. He nodded at Cari and Jack, and the guards continued with him on his tour.

“Jack,” Cari said, “thank you for this.” Her comm chimed and she looked at the message with a heavy sigh. “Even if it is a pain in the ass.”

“What now?”

“Cookie’s cat ran out of his berth chasing after a butterfly. I better go take care of it before we have a real interplanetary incident on our hands.”

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

Hedonist, Inc.

prompt: Write a short story about a work Christmas party that goes… awry.
available on Reedsy

As much as I hated these things, I found myself at another Hedonist, Inc Christmas blowout. The company’s real name is HedoLine, Inc, but I’ve called it the other way since the first party I attended here. It was a booze-fueled night of inappropriate jokes, kiss and grope, and indiscrete lavatory hookups.

Around me the others came in, dropping off the normal “party supplies.” Assorted finger foods, seven bottles of high-grade liquor, a case of energy drinks, a bowl of cannabis edibles (a staple since legalization), and The Punch Bowl. Three large bottles of fruit punch and a bag of ice had it half full, and it would remain so until the official start of the party. Once the DJ started (it was Dan, from Accounting, again) they’d ceremoniously dump four fifths of cheap whiskey into the bowl.

The lights went out, the Christmas tree was lit and the music started with thunderous bass. Of course, the tree had been lit all week prior, so the reveal was not at all exciting. But traditions seem to hang on, even when they’re lame. The CEO, CFO, CTO, and VP all had an open bottle of store-branded whiskey, complete with sell-by date, which they dumped into The Punch Bowl. As the music blasted out the lights came back half-way, with a spot pointing at a small disco globe hung from the ceiling.

Certain that I’d been seen and accounted for at the party I snuck into the break room and grabbed a small bag of cheese puffs from the cupboard, and a cold cola from the fridge. I don’t drink and I certainly don’t indulge in cannabis, so I left the “party supplies” alone. Dan was doing fine as DJ, at least so far. As the night wore on and he got drunk that would change, though.

Last month, someone left a sun lounger in the break room. I had unfolded it and was all set to lean back and take a nap when Debbie from Marketing came in. “Oh, hey sweetie,” she said, already half-lit. “Since you’re already in here can you start the coffee? We’re making Irish coffees for myself, and Darlene, and Dennis, and Delta, and -” she stopped. “Silly me, you don’t care about that, just make us some coffee?” She tried to look endearing, but she only succeeded in looking even more drunk.

Anxious to get her out of my sanctuary I agreed and told her I’d bring it out when it was ready. I lay back down as soon as she left. If they couldn’t figure out how to use the single-cup coffee maker in the main office, it was on them. It would probably be an hour or more before the “secret Santa” gift exchange, so I set an alarm to wake me then and dozed off to the muffled beat of Dan’s dance mixes.

When my phone woke me, vibrating in my pocket, the music was still pumping, but the transitions were sloppy. Not a big surprise. I grabbed another cola and sipped while wondering how much longer until I could attend the gift exchange and then bow out graciously. So far I’d handled these parties well enough that I didn’t catch any flack for not being “involved” enough in the “company culture.” That’s all I intended to do this time as well.

About thirty seconds into a song a second started playing on top of it, the two clashing like throwing a car into reverse while traveling at high speed. When the cacophony didn’t stop right away, I began to fear that Dan had passed out at his deck. Or possibly had a stroke. Either way, I couldn’t stay in my sanctuary any longer.

I emerged to pure chaos. Debbie was standing on a desk, nude, holding a drink aloft and dancing suggestively with Darlene who was in her underwear. Dan was trying to catch the lights from the disco globe. Delta was making out with Dennis in the middle of the room, while right behind them her husband Dave swayed, staring at the floor. They got her blouse off and then stopped, holding it between them and stroking the fabric.

A sharp blow to my rear brought me back to awareness. The CEO leaned in close, still holding my butt. “You know, Dick,” he said, “you could really go far in this company.”

I pulled away. “My name’s Richard.” Partly because Debbie was bound to spill her drink on someone’s computer, but mostly to get away from the CEO I rushed about the office, unplugging all the desks from the floor outlets that provided power. It wouldn’t save the computers that she spilled on, but might save the others from a shorted connection causing a power spike.

“Look at that!” the VP called out, getting everyone’s attention. He was pointing to Debbie and Darlene, now getting handsy. “Dream work makes the teamwork!” he yelled. I wanted to curl up into an invisible ball and remove myself from the cringe-fest happening all around me. This was far beyond the normal level of drunk, stoned, and stupid I had come to expect from Hedonist, Inc. This was… I wasn’t sure what this was.

I made my way to The Punch Bowl and saw something that hadn’t been there before, a bowl of sugar cubes, faintly pink. I watched as a few people made their way over and refilled their glass, adding a sugar cube, or sometimes two, before rejoining the party. Unlike normal sugar cubes they seemed to dissolve instantly in the drink. The horrible sound from the doubled tracks finally ended and Dan started playing some late 80s Rap, something about “me so horny.”

By this point, Dave was wearing Delta’s blouse as a scarf. I didn’t see Dennis anywhere, but Delta was sat on the floor counting the straps on her shoes. It wouldn’t seem like there was much to count there, but she would pause often and make motions like she was adding on her fingers. The CEO was chatting up one of the guys from Sales, and it looked to be going far better than his ham-handed attempt with me.

That’s when I saw him. Dennis was back, and swatting at some flying thing only he could see with a broom. I don’t know where the broom came from, but there he was, swinging wildly with it. He connected with a monitor that crashed to the floor. Next was a potted plant. The plant, like everything else around here, was fake so I didn’t worry about it. His next swing, though, broke one of the fire detectors on the ceiling. Water sprayed down, all of the sprinklers opening up as the alarm sounded.

I expected a panic. Instead, Dennis cowered under a desk, the broom discarded. Dan turned the music up even louder, and everyone else started dancing in the downpour, stripping down to underwear or less. Knowing that no-one else would I went outside in my now-soaked clothes to meet the fire department.

The fire trucks showed up in minutes and I let them know what was going on. One of the crew turned off the water main to shut down the sprinklers while her teammates went in to assure that everyone was ok. A moment after they entered the music finally stopped. Minutes later they emerged, one laughing and the other gone pale. The laughing one said “That’s why I never wanted an office job!”

The police arrived on the heels of the fire crew, and talked to them first. I overheard the words “electrical hazard” and “wild orgy” from the crew. I was next for the police to talk to. “What’s going on in there?” he asked.

I explained the typical Hedonist, Inc office party, and then added that this one was different. He nodded, taking notes as I shared my suspicions of something in the sugar cubes. Then I added “when I walked out there was no orgy, just dancing naked in the sprinklers.”

He asked me to show him the bowl of sugar cubes so I led him and his partner inside. To call what was going on an orgy would be to undersell it. As I stood, shocked for a moment, I wondered how I’d be able to face any of them come Monday. Without the thumping music there was no mistaking the sounds of sex coming from the piles of bodies scattered around the desks. I shook my head and led the officers to the “party supplies” and pointed out the small bowl, now full of water.

“Whatever was in here got washed out by the sprinklers,” he said. “We’ll take it anyway and see if we can get something off of it.” Wearing blue nitrile gloves he picked up the bowl, dumped the water out, and placed it into a large plastic bag. He pointed to the large camera above the table aimed at the main floor. “What’s that for?”

“We do live feeds for webinars, and that’s the main camera for that,” I said. “They also record these parties, then Marketing edits them to look fun, and happy,” and not like a drunken frat party, I thought, “and uploads them to social media.”

“Looks like this one’s gonna need a lot of editing,” he said. His partner asked if I could go with them to make sure everyone was accounted for and safe, and I agreed.

Dennis was still cowered under the desk, afraid of something. He left in an ambulance. So did the CEO and the man from Sales, as they were found both unconscious where they had passed out mid-coitus. Delta, Dave, and Darlene were having a go at it, and I interrupted to ask where Debbie had gone. They all looked at me like I was a three-headed garden gnome and went back to what they were doing. We looked all over, but no Debbie. My phone chimed. It was a tweet from Debbie on the official company twitter account, with a nude selfie.

“The last one’s in the men’s room, I’d recognize that ugly tile anywhere.” I showed the tweet. “If it’s ok, I’d like to go now.” The officers took my contact information and let me leave. As I walked home in my wet clothes, my phone chimed again. Another tweet from Debbie, “cops gone, party on!!!” It was followed almost immediately by a tweet with the video from the party and a link to the live feed. Yeah, definitely not going back on Monday.

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