Tag: contemporary

Trunk Stories

Rare Occasion

prompt: Write about a cynical character who somehow ends up on a blind date.

available at Reedsy

Eric pulled two more beers out of the cooler, opened one and handed it to Trey before opening his own. “Dude, you have to get back in the game at some point.”

“Says who?” Trey took a sip of the cold beer, enjoying the long afternoon’s relaxation after a hard day of labor.

“Says everyone.”

“Not everyone. I don’t say that.” Trey shook his head. “I’m happy on my own, thank you. I’ve got plenty to keep me occupied and I don’t need you trying to hook me up with your Aunt’s coworker’s friend’s niece.”

Eric took a long pull on his beer. “It’s not like that, dude. Do you really think I’d just throw some rando at you?”

“Yes. That’s exactly what you’d do.” Trey leaned back. “Besides, it feels like you’re saying I’m not good enough for someone to want to date without being pushed into it. ‘Hey, I set you up for a date with this guy you’d never date if you saw him first, but he’s okay once you get to know him.’ It’s demeaning, man.”

“You really think that’s what I’m saying — or is this just another pity party?”

Trey gave Eric a playful punch in the shoulder. “Don’t come at me with pity party, ass. I’m happy being single, you just don’t want to believe that.”

“You…happy? Compared to who? Eeyore?” Eric finished his beer and dropped the bottle into the box of empties next to the cooler. “You’re definitely a glass-half-empty sort.”

“I’m more, ‘The glass doesn’t exist unless you prove it to me.’ Anyway, I can be realistic, maintain a healthy skepticism, and still be happy. Besides, if I always expect the worst, no one can disappoint me, but I am pleasantly surprised on the rare occasion.”

Eric pointed at Trey. “See…that right there. You say you expect the worst and people rarely do better than that.”

“We just have a difference in how we see the fundamental nature of mankind. You see some sort of rainbow happy land where everyone is good and sweet and kind, and I see the actual self-serving and short-sighted nature of humans.”

“Damn. Why am I your friend again?”

Trey dropped his empty in the box with the others. “Because I was the one that protected you from the bullies from grade school through high school.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“How does your ‘People are good by nature’ fit into that story?”

Eric laughed. “Okay, yeah, people are generally decent, but kids aren’t people yet, they’re just little assholes.”

“I’ll allow it,” Trey said. He stood and stretched out his back. “I should get home and get cleaned up. Besides, your wife’s going to be home soon, and I don’t want to get roped into another session of ‘I hate your ex’ with her. I swear she acts like Vic left her rather than me.”

“Connie likes you and doesn’t like it when her friends are hurt.”

“Okay, but it’s been a year now, she could let it rest.”

Eric stood. “Yeah, it’s been a year, and you still haven’t even tried dating again.”

“The barracuda’s been keeping me busy. Driving okay now, and ready for paint, but still trying to get the computer dialed in. It wants to stall at idle when it’s warm.”

“You need to see a mechanic who knows how to tune those heli whatever engines.”

“HEMI…it’s a Mopar HEMI, 426, supercharged.”

Eric laughed. “Whatever. I heard you revving it up yesterday. Sounds fine to me. Just don’t idle.”

“I wish it was that simple.” Trey waved as he walked away. He crossed through the yard to the road, then walked across to his house. They hadn’t planned on living across the street from each other, but it worked out that way.

Trey showered and sat in front of the television. He wasn’t paying attention to what was on, it was just noise and distraction. Eric was like a brother to him, but sometimes he was annoying.

He cleared his mind and watched a nature show about dugongs and manatees, followed by one about humpback whale migrations. He turned off the television and was considering going to bed when Eric called him.

“What?” he answered.

“I might know a mechanic that could help.”

“Yeah, if you can meet up at the Rockin’ Arms Diner tomorrow at noon, you might have the fix for your tuning problem.”

“And you know they’re a good mechanic because…?”

“Because trust me. If you don’t think so, you can walk away.”

“Why don’t I just go to his shop?”

“Just…meet up for lunch and see what you find out.”

“If this is a setup, I’ll kick your ass.”

“Whatever. Tomorrow, noon, Rockin’ Arms, be there, they’ll find you.”

“Fine.”

Trey pulled into the parking lot of the Rockin’ Arms Diner, a light toe on the gas pedal to keep the engine from fully idling into a stall. He pulled into a spot in front of the diner. He made his way inside and took a booth  where he could keep an eye on his ’69 Plymouth Barracuda.

The sound of another big block caught his attention, and a mid-50’s Ford F-100 rumbled into the parking lot and pulled in next to him. From his vantage point, he couldn’t see who was driving or who got out, but judging by the truck, he thought it might be the mechanic.

He was looking over the menu when a woman walked in and approached his table. “Trey?” she asked. She had long, dark hair, large, brown eyes, and a constellation of freckles across her pale face. She was dressed in slacks and a loose blouse, holding a sweater over her hands while she fidgeted.

“Yeah, I’m Trey.” She looked familiar in the sort of way that he might have seen her in passing. “You from around here?”

“No, just got here. My sister lives here, though.” She sat down across from him, her hands hidden under the table. “I’m Coleen. I’m, uh, new to this.”

“To what? Mechanic work?”

Confusion clouded her eyes. “No, um…blind dates.”

Trey let out a sigh. “Your sister wouldn’t happen to be named Connie, would she? Married to Eric?”

Coleen looked down at the table. “Yeah, sorry. I can…I can go if you want.”

“No, no. Trey told me he was sending a mechanic to meet me about the Barracuda. Figures he was just trying to set me up.”

She sat upright and eyes grew wide. “That’s your car? The 1969 Barracuda out front? I’d love to work on her.”

“Yeah? Yeah.”

“What power plant?”

“426 HEMI, supercharged crate…about 150 miles on it.”

She leaned forward, her hands on the table. “What’s the issue?”

“Idles rough, and stalls sometimes, but only when it’s warm.”

“And the gauges look fine, though?”

“Yeah.”

“I bet it’s the coolant sensor. If that’s bad, the computer thinks the engine is still cold and the AFR gets too rich.”

“AF—right, air-fuel-ratio.” Trey looked at her hands; rough and oil stained.

She saw him looking and jerked her hands back under the table. “Sorry. Mechanics hands…gross, I know.”

Trey put his own rough, scarred hands on the table. Stains from metal work made dark lines in the creases. “Look, you’re Connie’s sister, so you know I work with Eric in the fab shop. Working hands are working hands, there’s nothing gross about them. They never mentioned you were a mechanic, though.”

“They never mentioned you had a sweet ride.”

Trey laughed. “Wait, was that your 50-something Ford?”

Coleen smiled. “’56…with a 502 Stroker. My grandfather left it to my dad, but he’s not mechanical at all, so he gave it to me to restore.”

“Straight restoration?” Trey asked.

“Restomod. Modern engine, new frame and suspension, disc brakes, back-up camera, touchscreen system, the works.”

Trey nodded. “Same. Who built the frame?”

“Your shop. Hell, you and Eric probably worked on it.”

“Probably. I built the frame for the Barracuda in the shop, on my own time, with my own materials. Plus the motor mounts, and a bunch of other small parts.”

“I’m opening a shop here, doing restorations, restomods, and hot-rods. Wanna bring the Barracuda over and we can check it out? Maybe get it on the dyno?”

Trey nodded. “Sounds like a plan. Let’s finish lunch and then go.”

“Good. I can get out of my sister’s ‘date clothes’ then.”

“Where’s your shop?”

“You know Wonder Automotive?”

Trey chuckled. “As in, wonder how it stayed open so long. Yeah, I know it. You bought it?”

“Yeah.”

“Where are you staying?”

“In the shop. At least until I get it up and running and get some income.”

“Why aren’t you staying with Eric and Connie?”

“Have you seen their spare room?”

“Oh, yeah, the quilting stuff…forgot about that.” Trey thought for a moment. “If you want a comfortable place to stay while you’re getting up and running, you can stay at my place. Connie and Eric are right across the street so you can bother them whenever you want.”

Coleen smirked. “You know what would really bother them? If they see my truck parked there every night and we don’t say a word to them about it. Just refuse to talk about it at all.”

Trey laughed. “That’d get right up Eric’s ass.”

“You still mad at him for setting us up?”

“Nah. Can’t stay mad at him. Besides, if he’d just introduced us, I probably would’ve asked you out, anyway.”

“Really?”

“Really. Speaking of which…what are your plans for tomorrow evening?”

“Nothing.”

“How about we go to the classic car show over in Lester?”

Coleen smiled. “It’s a date.”

Trey looked at her and a wide smile crossed his face. “It’s a rare occasion.”

“What is?”

“This. I’m pleasantly surprised.”

Trunk Stories

One Man’s Trash

prompt: Start your story with a student discovering a hidden room in a university library.

available at Reedsy

The reference stacks were close, dusty. The mismatched bookshelves crammed full, combined with the smell of aged paper and years of dust invoked the used bookstore Lisha loved as a child. Some of the volumes were beyond antique, many of them irreplaceable. So why, she wondered, is there a draft here, in the most protected part of the library?

Lisha used the flashlight on her phone to illuminate the dust motes in the air, following the currents and eddies upstream. She ended up at the most out-of-place bookshelf — if one could call it that — in the entire library. Students called it the “tank.”

The “tank” was the only bookshelf on wheels, and the only one hermetically sealed and fitted with its own climate control. Inside, held in precisely made cradles, were the rarest, most expensive tomes in the library’s collection. The top shelf held a thirteenth-century volume containing the gospels, along-side a little-known sketch book with Sir Isaac Newton’s scribbles.

The middle shelf held a scroll recovered from an archaeological dig dated to roughly 2000 BCE. It had never been opened, for fear it would disintegrate; for now, it waited for a new technology or technique to discover its secrets.

The collection of diaries on the bottom shelf, perhaps not as important as the other items, brought Lisha’s attention back to what she’d been doing. The draft was coming from beneath the tank. She rolled it forward into the aisle to see if there was a problem with the climate control.

It was only as she was looking at the solid back that hid the machinery that she realized she wouldn’t have been able to tell if there was anything wrong in the first place. She felt a breath of cool air against her ankle. The wall had a gap beneath it, there.

Lisha knelt to inspect the gap under the wall, and as she did, pushed against the wall for support. The wall — or more properly, the door covered in the same paneling as the walls — swung in. The room was a library within a library. The difference being this was the sort of Victorian library one would expect in a manor.

Still using her phone’s flashlight, she traced the books on the shelves. Encyclopedia Britannica, all, from the ninth edition to the fifteenth. She swept her light over the furnishings. Leather sofas and chairs, an ornate desk beside a fireplace, and on the other side of the fireplace another leather chair with a small table. On the table was a paperback, a battery-operated reading light, and a sport bottle.

So, she wasn’t the first to discover the room, and someone had been here recently. She heard the wind gusting outside, the sound, along with a blast of cool air, coming down the chimney and out the fireplace, swirling the ashes around.

“Oh, dear.” The voice that came with the bright light from the doorway startled her. Lisha whirled around, expecting to be in some sort of trouble.

“I…uh…there was a draft, and I—”

“It’s my fault,” the voice behind the bright light said. The large flashlight pointed at the floor, and Lisha could make out Esther, the head librarian.

“Uh…hi, Esther.”

“Nice to see you, Lisha. I guess I forgot to close the flue this morning.” Esther stepped in and pushed the door closed behind her. She lit one of the oil lamps near the door and the room was filled with a warm, soft glow.

“I didn’t know this was here.”

“Few do. And I would ask that you don’t share its existence with anyone. This is one of the rare places on campus that a few of us can retreat to and not be bothered.”

“Everything about this room, except for the more recent encyclopedias, looks Victorian. What was it?”

“When the Women’s College opened up and shared the library, this room was walled off to allow a place for the ‘gentlemen’ to avoid the women, smoke their cigars and pipes, and drink their brandy or sherry while they studied.” She pointed at the framed, Victorian-era, “French postcards” on the walls.

“I’m surprised it’s still here.”

“Not that surprising. It was never wired for electricity with the rest of the library — first in the thirties, then in the subsequent renovations since. When the colleges joined in the fifties, this became something of a ‘secret society’ boys club. Now, it’s a different sort of secret society that only a few staff and faculty that know about.”

“So, that’s your novel and water bottle?”

“No, that would be William — Dr. Hillyard. He only reads his trashy novels where he can’t be seen. Wouldn’t do for a professor of 19th century French literature to be seen reading Wild Women in the Big House by Amee Butts.”

Lisha giggled. “No, I suppose it wouldn’t. Wait, how do you know what he’s reading?”

“We’re all reading it. This is a trashy novel reading club. We have our guilty pleasures.” Esther smiled. “Every Tuesday night we gather when the library closes early. We build a fire, have a couple drinks, and rip apart the latest trash we all read. Those of us who smoke or vape, do so by the fireplace — with the hot air rising, it pulls the smoke or vapor right out.”

Lisha looked around the room once more. “I suppose I have to leave, and not come back, then?”

“Technically, I can’t bar any student from access to any part of the library except for the offices, the storage, and the restorations room.”

“But…?”

“No buts — unless you abuse the privilege. Just remember, when you come in, pull the museum case back into place and push the door shut.”

Lisha nodded. “Museum case? Oh! The tank. Makes sense.”

Esther moved to the fireplace, reached up inside, and a squeak and clank announced the shutting of the flue. “No fire unless you’re part of Omtiamp, and then only during the meeting.”

“Omptiamp?”

Esther turned on her flashlight and pointed it at an embroidered patch above the fireplace that said, “One man’s trash is another man’s pleasure.”

“Ah. I didn’t even see any wood for a fire.”

“In the bottom of the desk over there.”

Lisha moved to the other side of the desk and found a stack of firewood and kindling in the now doorless cabinet on the left side. Two of the stack of drawers on the right side were labeled. The top said, “Matches.” The second down said “Drinks.” Lisha pulled on the handle, and the three drawer faces swung out together revealing a small wet bar.

“How does one join the Omtiamp Book Club?” Lisha asked.

“Just Omtiamp,” Esther said, “and it’s easy. Bring a bottle of decent booze. None of the ten-dollar plonk, but it doesn’t need to be top-shelf, either. Then, recommend a novel, the trashier and worse written the better. But there are rules.”

“Trashy novel rules, hit me.”

“First, it has to be currently available for sale somewhere we can all pick it up…in a physical copy. No e-book only deals. Second, it can’t be self-published, or we’d spend eternity reading Chuck Tingle books. Third, it can’t be one we’ve already done. Fourth and final rule, nothing that for some unknown reason, became popular.”

“You mean like the one that started as fanfiction and became a whole series of movies.”

“Right.”

“Have you already done ‘The Jungle Loves Back,’ by Rex Greentree?” Lisha asked.

Esther pulled out her phone, looked it up, and smiled. “Half a star! I’ll send out the buy notice to the club, and I’ll see you here next week, don’t forget the booze. If you like, you can read William’s copy of the current book and rip it apart with us.”

“I’ll be here.”

Trunk Stories

Intrusive

prompt: Write a story about someone trying to resist their darker impulses. Whether they succeed or fail is up to you.

available at Reedsy

Intrusive thoughts, that’s what my therapist calls them. But they aren’t just thoughts, they are fully realized scenes that play out in the theater of my mind.

The colors, the sounds, the smells, the feelings…that’s what they are. I watched the old guy in the store with the pistol on his hip. He didn’t pay attention to where he was or what was around him. Twice I’ve managed to sidle past him in the aisle and put my hand on it; the second time I just stopped myself from pulling it when I had hold of the grip.

I had to hide in the diaper aisle while the scene played out in my head. I draw the pistol and shoot him, point blank. The look of shock makes me laugh. I continue with my shopping, like nothing is wrong while everyone runs from me. I approach the checkout lane and use the pistol to encourage the cashier to ring me up. I pay with my card while waving at the cameras. Anyone who gets in my way, I shoot them and continue. The blood is beautiful, as beautiful as the looks of fear.

Once the scene had played out and I was done grinning like a loon, I pulled myself together.

“Are you okay?” the soccer-mom looking woman asked me. She was looking at me as if I’d gone mad.

“Oh, yeah. I took a shortcut through this aisle and couldn’t help remembering when my boy was a baby. Happier times.”

“Happier?”

“Yeah. Teenagers are the worst. He’ll grow out of it, I’m sure.” I left her with her lower-middle-class suburban haircut and cart full of cold cereal, milk, yogurt cups, and training pants to get back to my own chores. As if I’d ever have kids.

I saw a police officer in uniform, probably just came off shift. He was far more aware of his pistol than the old man. On a whim, I stopped him in the cracker aisle and asked if he could reach one of the boxes on the top shelf. It was a reasonable ask for someone as short as I.

He put his right hand on his pistol as he reached up and grabbed the box with his left. “Just the one?” he asked as he handed it to me.

“Yeah, just the one,” I said, “thanks. Good work on weapon awareness, by the way.”

“You a safety instructor?”

“No, just pay attention.”

“Well, you have a good day.” He looked at me as though he suspected something but couldn’t do anything about it.

I finished my shopping and told the cashier I’d changed my mind about the crackers. With full reusable bags in hand, I made my way to the bus stop.

I’d lost my driver’s license when I let the “intrusive thoughts” win and threw it into park on the freeway. It wasn’t as exciting as I thought it would be. The car just slowed down until it came to a stop, then the transmission made a loud clunk as it shifted into park and wouldn’t shift out of it.

The other people on the freeway got all the excitement. One guy slammed on his brakes to avoid rear-ending me and got rear-ended himself, spinning him into the next lane. That created a chain reaction that involved fourteen cars and a semi-truck. Problem was, it all happened behind me, and I couldn’t see much of it.

I almost missed my bus, as I was busy trying to recreate the scene that had played out behind me that day. I lugged my bags to an empty seat and sat. The bottle of malt vinegar bumped against my ankle, and I chuckled.

I empty everything but the bottle from the bag, then stand. The bag handles in my grip, I swing with all my force. I laugh at the sound of the bottle cracking skull. Head injuries bleed a lot, and the scene is glorious. Someone tries to grab me, and I swing at them. The bottle connects with their wrist, a sharp snap as their ulna breaks under the impact. I cut their scream off with a hard swing to their head, the bag now thoroughly soaked in blood.

The other riders on the bus have gotten used to me. I’m sure they thought I was mentally impaired in some way. Still, I felt eyes on me; someone was staring.

I looked around and found them. A woman in the sideways seat in the front stared at me. I looked at her, opened my eyes as wide as they would go and licked my lips. The way she almost jumped out of the seat and turned away to look out the front made me laugh.

“Thank you, darling,” I said. “I ain’t been eye-fucked that good in a long time.”

I blew her a kiss as I got off at my stop. I skipped the elevator and took the stairs to my apartment. It was always good for a little extra exercise.

My therapist said that exercise was a good way to combat the “intrusive thoughts.” I didn’t agree, but I did have to admit that I was better shape than I had been in a long time.

After a so-so take-out dinner, I settled in to watch every horror movie on stream…or at least the ones with gore and rated R or MA. I was still watching and laughing at the splatter-fest on my screen when the sun came up.

I didn’t have any plans, so I decided to just fall asleep in front of the television whenever. There were still hours and hours of movies to go, and I wasn’t tired. I ordered breakfast from one of the delivery services, since I didn’t want to pause the movie too long, it was the funniest I’d seen yet.

It consisted of a thin veneer of plot over a plethora of inventive and increasingly complex methods of gory murder. When a kid’s intestines were slowly wound around a hose reel, I laughed so hard that I nearly choked on my breakfast burrito.

I liked it so much, I restarted it as soon as it ended. At some point, I laughed myself to sleep.

I woke feeling tired, my body aching, as though I’d been working out. I reached out for the remote, but my hands were bound to the table in front of me. Handcuffs. A scratchy blanket was wrapped around me. I looked down, and saw that I was nude under the blanket, and covered in blood.

I hurt, but not enough for the amount of blood. It couldn’t be mine. “Fuck!” I pounded my fists on the table. “It must’ve been amazing, but I don’t remember anything! God damn it! It’s not fair.”

“You don’t have to remember. We have you on camera. We’re just trying to establish a why.” The detective tried to talk all gentle and polite, but I could tell she was a hair from snapping.

“It’s on camera? Can I see? I want to see. I need to see!” I shook the blanket off and looked at the blood that had dried on my body. From the looks of it, I had painted myself with it.

“We’re not going to let you wa—”

“If you show me, I might remember why,” I said. “It’s not fair! I don’t remember it, but it had to be good. Just look at me!”

The detectives decided they weren’t going to get anything useful out of me and booked me. They didn’t know that while they left me waiting in the hall, I was able to see some other officers gathered around a monitor, watching my antics. I just wished I could remember what it felt like in the moment, but it was hilarious to watch.

I couldn’t stop laughing, even while I was booked, forced to wash, and thrown into a cell. It was just too funny, and I imagined all of them with their intestines on a hose reel, which just made me laugh more.

I wondered if my therapist would even talk to me any longer. She’d probably be disappointed. That thought made me momentarily sad. I could find out where she lived and go talk to her; let her know it wasn’t the same — it couldn’t be the same — because I don’t remember it. To talk to her, of course, I’d have to get out the jail first, but I was already working on an idea or two.

Trunk Stories

But They Still Laugh

prompt: Your character is known as the town gossip. One day, it comes back to bite them.

available at Reedsy

Nobody ever worked harder or more tirelessly to keep their community safe and informed than Carl. Since everyone in his small town was so reserved, hiding even trivial details from each other, he had to find things out on his own.

He knew how reserved everyone was, because he was the most open person ever, and they told him nothing. That didn’t stop him from reaching out, sharing the little secrets with anyone and everyone who’d listen for just a moment.

The other day, he’d had to tell Jennifer that Michael was sweet on her, and she should watch out, since he’s married. He’d hate to see someone like her, a single mother of three, living in a single wide on the edge of town, barely scraping by, be taken advantage of. Especially by a Lothario like Michael, manager of the meat counter at the grocery store.

She’d asked, “What makes you say that?”

Carl leaned in close, so only she could hear, and told her, “I’ve seen him lift the scale up a bit with his thumb, so you pay less for your meat. He thought he was clever, but I was in a perfect position to see.”

Jennifer was dismissive, but Carl knew that was just a facade covering her relief at being saved from manipulation. While a “thank you” might have been in order, he knew better than to expect that much from his tight-lipped neighbors.

Every morning, he took his travel mug to the diner where Jennifer filled it with coffee for ninety cents. Besides being cheaper even though he always paid a full dollar for it, it was better than anything at the Starbucks. He was certain of that…not that he’d ever set foot in a Starbucks.

Mug in hand, he wandered to the riverside park where he could sit on a bench facing the river, the morning sun behind him. Besides watching the ducks, it was a great place for his favorite pastime, people-watching.

He checked his watch. He knew that Allison should be jogging by any second. She started her runs every morning at seven, and took a full loop of the town, with a swing through the park at the half-way point. Running two hours every morning couldn’t be that good for her, could it?

Either way, she looked fit and healthy, although Carl had a suspicion that there was trouble at home. Why else would she spend so much time away from the house when her husband was home? He wouldn’t share his suspicions with anyone without proof, though.

For the time being, she passed right on schedule, and he gave her a wave. She acknowledged him with a nod of the head as she loped past, sweating. He noticed something new, though; she was wearing weights on her wrists, making it a chore to keep her arms going. Isn’t that sort of self-torture what the victims of abuse do?

Still, not enough proof to bring it up, so he’d keep that under his hat for a while. With his mind on hats, Carl decided to walk up to the feed store and see what was happening there. Since his accident and the subsequent sale of his farm, he didn’t have much occasion to go there, except to peruse their selection of trucker hats and ball caps.

He opened the door to the smells of chicken feed, straw, aged wood with dust long since ground in, and a hint of diesel. “Hey, Jeff,” he said as he entered.

“Carl.” Jeff’s reply was curt, almost cold if one didn’t know that’s how he talked. Carl knew, though, and considered Jeff one of his longest-term friends.

“Anything good?”

Jeff pointed at the rack where the caps lived and went back to whatever paperwork he’d been doing behind the register.

Carl looked through the rack. Most of the new caps had sayings on them he didn’t understand. Jokes for a younger audience, he figured. There was one cap with the old International Harvester logo on it. His own IH cap was ratty, so replacing it was a reasonable action.

“Figured you’d like that,” Jeff said. “Need anything else?”

“Nope. How’s things around here?”

“Same as always.” Jeff bagged his purchase and handed it to him.

“Hey friend,” Carl said, “you might want to have a word with your son. Tell him to keep it to his wife and stop flirting with the ladies. He seems to have taken a shine to Jennifer.”

Jeff said nothing, and his blank face gave away no reaction.

Carl raised his bag and headed toward the door. “See you later.”

“Mm.”

His leg was feeling relatively good, so Carl decided to walk the long way home. On the way, he passed by the gym. The garage there had been converted thirty or so years ago, but he didn’t know how it stayed open, empty as it was.

With the morning warm, the large overhead doors were open, and the punching bags were in use. There was Allison, training with a coach. Poor thing, she must be trying to protect herself from her abusive husband. Carl was all but certain of that, now. He didn’t know how much use her training would be, though, as her husband was a hulk of a man with the scars of many a fight on his face and knuckles.

Still, Carl wasn’t one to spread unsubstantiated rumors. Only what he could verify. And when he verified his suspicion, he’d be calling the police first. 

The rest of the week went the same. Carl did his rounds, shared what he’d learned where appropriate, and kept his eyes open.

That Thursday, Allison didn’t show up in the park. Fearing the worst, Carl limped past her house despite the pain he was feeling that day.

Allison was loading a suitcase in their car, a look of worry on her face. Denzel, her brute of a husband followed behind, throwing another suitcase in the back of their car. In contrast to her, he was in a good mood.

Carl tried to signal to her that he was there, but Denzel had pulled her in close and was talking to her. He accentuated what he was saying with a finger poking her in the chest. When he finished quietly berating her, he stood back with his arms wide, and they hugged.

Carl wondered how she could be so tolerant of such behavior. Still, he wasn’t doing any good standing around, so he continued home.

She didn’t show in the park the next day, as he’d expected. They looked as though they’d packed for at least an overnight. He tried to put it out of his mind but limped past the gym all the same. The cool, grey day meant the overhead doors were closed and he couldn’t see inside.

The following day, she was back, but running slower than usual. Even from a distance he could see the stitched wound on her eyebrow, the swollen and bruised cheek, and two black eyes that signified a broken nose.

He couldn’t sit by and do nothing. He stood to stop her on the path. “Allison, come with me. We’ll go to the County Sheriff and get that bastard behind bars.”

“What are you talking about, Carl?” She tried to step around him. “Get out of my way.”

Carl grabbed her arm as gently as he could. “Please, you don’t have to stick around for his abuse. He’ll kill you one day.”

“Carl, if you don’t get out my way, I’ll call the sheriff, and it’ll be your ass behind bars. Now move.”

“No!” Carl pulled out his phone and dialed 911. As soon as he tried to tell them what was happening, Allison tried to pull away, but he kept hold.

“Let go of me, Carl, or I’ll deck you!”

“Allison, no. The sheriff’s coming; you’ll be safe.”

“Fuck off, Carl! Quit grabbing me!”

Carl tried his best to keep her there, until she unloaded a jab to his chin that knocked him out. He came to after a few seconds, but Allison was long gone.

It was only moments later that a sheriff’s deputy walked from the park’s entrance to his location, with Allison.

“There he is now,” she said.

“Sir, can I see your ID?” the deputy asked.

Carl sighed and handed over his driver’s license. “It’s about time you got here. Her husband’s going to kill her if she doesn’t get away from him.”

“What makes you say that?” the deputy asked, as he continued writing in his notepad.

“Look at her face! My god. They left town for one night and she comes back looking like this! I saw him poking her in the chest right before they left. Like the bully he is.”

The deputy looked at Allison. “Is this true?”

“What? My husband has never raised a hand to me. He won’t even spar with me.”

“No, the finger in the chest? Did that happen?”

Allison laughed. “Yeah. He pointed to my heart and said, and I quote. ‘Quit thinking about the fight, and feel it, right here. You got this.’”

The deputy nodded as he wrote it down. “You had it, all right. That was a good fight, by the way. I thought for sure it would go to decision, until you got the KO in the fourth round.”

“Thanks. Den was right, you know. I was in my head the first round, until she rocked it a few times. Nothing like blood in the eye to wake you up in the ring.”

The deputy stopped writing. “By the way, mom said to tell you she won’t be able to bring cookies to church on Sunday and wondered if you could fill in.”

“No problem. Tell her to expect me there early.”

The deputy nodded and went on to writing again.

Carl was aghast at the casual conversation going on. “Y—you mean, Denzel didn’t…I mean he’s…he looks….”

“Black?” Allison asked. “Is that what you meant, Carl?”

The deputy looked up from the report he was writing. “Carl?” He looked at the ID again. “You go by your middle name, then?”

Carl nodded.

The deputy’s eyes widened. “Wait a minute,” he turned to Allison. “Is this the guy? I mean, the guy? This is Conspiracy Carl?”

Allison nodded.

“Well, do you want to press charges for assault?”

“No,” she said, “I knocked him out when he wouldn’t let go.”

“That massive left hook?” the deputy asked.

“The weak right jab,” she answered.

“Okay, sir. She’s not pressing charges for assault and kidnapping, but I’m afraid I will have to arrest you for false reporting.”

“What?”

“Turn around, put your hands behind your back.”

“But I…I thought her husband….”

“No, you assumed her husband beat her, instead of asking her. Hell, she’d probably give you a blow by blow of the whole match, at least after the first round anyway.”

“But I—”

“But nothing. I’ll take you to the station, where you’ll be booked with a Class A misdemeanor, and probably released on your own recognizance until we can get a court date.”

As the deputy loaded Carl into the car, he said, “Even in the city we’ve heard of you. The public defender’ll probably get you off on being mentally incompetent, though.”

Once they were on the road, the deputy said, “Hey Carl.”

“What?”

“You know they all laugh at you, right? I mean…they pray for you at my mom’s church every Sunday, but they still laugh.”

Trunk Stories

Unsung Heroes or Something

prompt: Set your story in a staff room of an essential profession that is often undervalued — nurses, cafeteria staff, sanitation workers, etc. 

available at Reedsy

Jordi found the presence of the reporter and camera jarring. This was a place where no one came, unless they worked in laundry, He looked for the telltale purple hair of Jen or the mustard yellow that represented the only color Jules ever wore.

He saw a flash of them through the glass of the door to the decontamination room airlock. Careful not to catch the reporter’s eye, he moved to the door.

The door opened with a hiss of inrushing air and the two women stepped out. “Hey Jordi, ready for lunch?” Jules asked.

He kept his voice just above a whisper. “What’s she doing here?” he asked, darting his eyes toward the reporter.

“I better tell the dude with the camera that there’s no pictures of the Three Musketeers unless we’re all together,” Jen said.

Jules put her arms around the other two. “Three J’s, forever and always.”

They moved past the camera to the small break area and pulled their lunches out of the fridge. As they sat at the table, their supervisor came in and began talking with the reporter and the camera operator.

“Looks like Diego’s got it all handled,” Jordi said. Jen chuckled at the inside joke, while Jules snorted and nearly choked on the iced coffee she was drinking.

“Damn it, don’t say shit like that while I’m drinking!”

“She’s got a drinking problem,” Jen said, making all three of them laugh.

“Now, I just need to find a damn Twinkie,” Jordi said, making all three of them giggle.

“Are we weird or just stupid?” Jen asked through a laugh.

“Yes,” Jules answered.

Their meal breaks usually went that way; a string of in-jokes and non sequiturs that amused them. They had all started the same week seven years earlier and had become fast friends.

“Seriously, though,” Jules asked, “what’s with the news lady?”

“Looks like Diego’s talking them through the dirty room procedures,” Jen said.

Jordi frowned. “No way is that camera going past the airlock door.”

Diego left the reporter and walked to the table as though he’d heard Jordi’s remark. “Hey, just so you know. When you bring down B-4, they’re going to be getting some footage of how the dirties are loaded into the sterilizer.”

“Great,” Jen said, “day shift didn’t finish the plague ward.”

Diego hissed, “Don’t let anyone hear you call it that!”

“I guess if the camera’s going to follow us around, we should warn the nurses in the B-wing to not say that,” Jules muttered.

“I don’t want that camera past the airlock door,” Jordi said. “There’s no way we can cover the cameraman…camerawoman…whatever…and all their gear with a suit, and that camera won’t survive decon, not that it—”

“The camera and reporter are staying outside the airlock,” Diego cut in. “I’m way ahead of you on that. Besides, the reporter wanted to go in, but the camera…person talked her out of it. Something about ‘insurance won’t cover her if she catches it.’ They’ll be staying at the observation window.”

“So, only the fourth floor?” Jen asked.

“Yeah, day shift got behind when the reporter insisted on getting shots of them donning their PPE. Where are you on your regular rounds?”

“We just pushed D-1 through 5 into the sterilizer,” Jules said. “I don’t even want to know what went on in OB surgery two…a full canister of bio, and another half-bag sitting next to it.”

“Yeesh,” Jordi said with a shudder. “That doesn’t sound good.”

“If two of us jump on B-4, the third can move the loads out of the sterilizers into the washers, and we might be able to finish ER and A wing after that.” Jules rose from the table and began clearing up her mess.

“If you don’t have time to get to A, don’t sweat it.” Diego sighed. “This woman has been a pain in my ass all day, trying to get the stories of the ‘unsung heroes’ or something. Between the camera getting in the way and the interviews, she put the day shift behind.”

“I’m not doing any interviews,” Jordi said.

“You don’t have to talk to her or the camera…person unless they’re in the way.” Diego looked over at the reporter who was recording bits staring straight into the camera.

“What’s with the whole ‘camera, big pause, person’ thing, D?” Jules asked.

“I honestly can’t tell whether they’re a man or woman or something in-between.”

Jen stood. “And you didn’t think to ask?”

“Don’t,” Jordi said, already hiding his face in embarrassment for what she was about to do.

“Hey, cameraperson,” she yelled, “what’re your pronouns?”

The camera operator turned to look at Jen and peeked from around the eyepiece. “She, her,” she said.

“Thanks!” Jen turned to Diego. “See, easy.”

“See,” the reporter said, “you should wear something more form-fitting.”

The camerawoman frowned. “And get hit on like you? No way.”

Jordi rose and threw his lunch bag in the compostable collection bin. “I’ll head up to B-4. Who’s with me?”

“Dibs,” Jen said before Jules could call it.

Jordi and Jen donned gloves, protective booties over their shoes, and a coverall over the gloves and shoes. They took turns taping shut the wrists and ankles of the other, then donned their headgear, and taped around the base of that where it overlapped the coverall.

They added a second pair of gloves, and each pushed two enclosed carts into the freight elevator. Jordi eyed the hundreds of UVC lamps in the walls and ceiling of the car. If those should happen to be turned on while they were in it, it would be disastrous.

Once they arrived at the fourth floor, they took the service hallway to the B wing. Jordi keyed the radio that was clipped to his shoulder under the coverall. “Hey, janitorial, laundry entering B-4.”

“Jordi…about time. East closet is stocked, West and South are empty. Dirties are ready for pickup.”

“Thanks, Mal. Can you spare someone for a follow in the service tunnel?”

“Yeah, I’ll be up there in a minute. I’ll be waiting for you.”

After stocking the linen closets with the plastic-sealed sheet sets and plastic-sealed towels, they flipped the signs on the carts to display the biohazard warning. Each room’s dirties were in a biohazard bag sitting just outside the door.

They went opposite directions around the wing, filling their carts. The on-floor janitors followed behind them with a spray bottle and microfiber mop, spraying the spot where the bag had been and drying it with the mop.

When they met up, the janitors held their mops over Jen’s second bin and released the heads to drop into the basket with the rest. She sealed it up as the others had already been sealed and they exited back into the service hall.

Mal stood waiting with a machine that sprayed, scrubbed, vacuumed, and bathed the floor beneath it in UVC. He nodded. “Day shift got behind, huh?”

“Yeah.” Jordi heard the machine start up as they made their way to the freight elevator.

They rode down in silence. When the elevator reached their basement floor, the side opposite the one they’d entered opened. The door into the main area wouldn’t open until the car had run a sterilization cycle.

They exited into the “dirty” room, where they began dumping the bags of linens, scrubs, towels, gowns, and mop heads into the sterilizers. They dropped the empty bags into a chute that led to the incinerator two floors lower.

Once they had emptied all four carts, they pushed the carts into the adjoining decontamination room dirty side airlock. The pressure in the airlock was higher than the dirty room, ensuring nothing would be blown or sucked in from the dirty room.

Through the airlock, the decontamination room was likewise positively pressurized when they entered. There was a strict, one-direction airflow through the airlocks and decontamination room, from “clean” side to dirty.

Jordi turned the carts upside down on a belt that led through what would best be described as a giant, commercial dishwasher. Jen placed the lids on the belt after the carts, and they both removed their outer gloves and dropped them into a chute that, like the previous, led to the incinerator.

Jen grabbed the wand and sprayed Jordi down from top to bottom as he turned slowly, his arms and legs spread wide. Jordi took over, using the liquid still on his inner gloves to wipe down the sprayer handle.

Once they were both soaked down and the floor drain had pulled most of the water out, they waited while the pressure in the decontamination room dropped. The airlock opened, air rushing into the decontamination room.

Jordi said, “Ladies first.”

“Gladly.” Jen stood near the airlock’s chute to the incinerator, where Jordi untaped the edge of her head cover and pulled at the release on the neck of her coverall, starting a tear down the back seam that ran to the waist.

She did the same for him, then, with practiced movements, they grabbed the back of their hood, and pulled it, along with their coveralls off to their waist. The upper part turned inside out to the point where it was taped to their gloves.

Bending over, they ripped the tape at their ankles, allowing them to step out of the booties and coveralls, only their wrists connected at this point. Jen went first, lifting the tangle of her PPE and putting it into the chute before tearing the tape at her wrists and allowing it fall, pulling off the inner gloves.

Jordi followed suit, and they waited again for the pressure in the airlock to drop, before the door to the main area opened for them. The camerawoman held the camera at her side, pointing down, while the reporter continued chattering away to Diego.

He was, to Jordi’s eyes, clearly annoyed, but the reporter didn’t seem to get it. With the camera not pointing at him, he felt more comfortable speaking up. “Hey, Diego, we need to go over the stock lists for the A wing.”

Diego came straight over to Jordi and Jen. He pulled out his phone and the three of them pretended to look at something on it while Diego whispered to a nodding Jordi and Jen, “Thank you.”

Diego put his phone away. “We should go help Jules load the washers.”

Jordi knew that wasn’t true, as the sterilizers were empty when they arrived, but it seemed like a good place to hide until the reporter got tired of hanging around.

Trunk Stories

Ends of the Earth

prompt: Write about two solo travelers who keep bumping into each other in the most unexpected of places.

available at Reedsy

Some people make a bucket list and never get around to any of it. I’m not “some people.” I’m luckier than most, I would say. There was no rhyme or reason for me to blow a buck on the lotto, but I did. Winning two-and-a-half million after taxes was the impetus for this trip.

There are places I want to see, and many of them only allow a few people a year in to protect them. Those are the places I most want to see. After two years of getting permits and planning travel, I’m checking things off my bucket list.

The first time I saw her was at Chichen Itza. There were four of us that had been granted permission to climb Kukulkan with researchers. Besides the thousands of pesos we had to pay for the permits, we were expected to help the researchers carry their equipment up and down the pyramid.

The other two were a German man and an Italian man. Neither caught my eye as anything interesting, but her, wearing a floppy chartreuse hat with neon pink hair…one just cannot ignore that.

Where I had expected her to be a princess based on her clothes and the expensive camera she carried, she hauled more gear up the pyramid than either of the men and did it with a cheerful smile.

At the top, I let the view soak in. This was not a trip for photos, this was a trip for experiences.

“We girls have to stick together,” she said, her Irish lilt and soft voice like honey to my ears. “Beautiful.”

“It is,” I said.

“That too.”

My ability to socialize was used up, we didn’t speak any more. The fact that she picked up on it and didn’t push left an impression.

Yirga Chefe, Ethiopia wasn’t on my bucket list, but it did seem an interesting place to spend a week since my next location’s dates had been bumped due to weather. There in the hotel lobby was the floppy, chartreuse hat with neon pink hair spilling out. It was the Irish woman I’d seen in Mexico. The question was, what was she doing in Ethiopia?

In another of my impulsive moves, I decided to talk to her first. Before nervousness could completely remove my voice, I crossed the lobby to where she sat drinking coffee.

“Hi. What am I doing here…I mean, you…here…doing…?”

The smile that danced in her green eyes was gentle, genuine. She laughed, and I could tell it was not at my expense. “Hello again, mystery woman,” she said. “I’m just here for about a week before I head out for my next adventure. You?”

“I…uh,” was all I could say. I nodded.

“How about you meet me here for breakfast in the morning?” she asked. “I’m Diane, by the way.”

I nodded again and tried to get my name out. “Mir—Miranda,” I managed to squeak out.

“I’ll see you for breakfast in the morning, Miranda.”

I nodded and pointed at the door. “I’ve…got…a thing….” Heart pounding, face burning, I left the hotel at a run. I don’t socialize well, but that was bad even for me. There was something about her that flustered me to the core.

I wandered through the town, stopping on the outskirts where a herd of goats were moving toward the hills. The boy that led them stopped and smiled broadly at me. He said something in Amharic. I don’t know what it was, but the goats took interest in me as well.

The raw curiosity in their gaze brought a chuckle to my lips. While a few of the adults were standing around me, interested in this pale person in strange clothes, three kids came galumphing through to stop at my feet.

As I knelt down to give them scratches, the goatherd was saying something I didn’t understand. Once I was eye level with the kids, they jumped on me, using me as a playground.

While that was going on, two of the adults began rubbing against me. I scratched and petted every goat that got within reach. The combination of nerves, embarrassment, shyness, and fear that I’d made a fool of myself melted away.

Before too long, I was laid out in the dirt with kids standing on me, goats laying on me, and I was laughing uncontrollably. The boy clapped his hands and said something that got all the goats’ attention. He waved at me and turned his back on the goats and walked toward the hills. The goats took off as one, following him.

I was glad the hotel had a laundry, as I didn’t want all my clothes to smell like goat, even if the odor brought a happy memory. Breakfast was far less awkward than I’d expected. Diane was capable of carrying a conversation on her own, while making me feel included.

We had breakfast every day, with a conversation spread out enough that I could manage it. Diane was taking a year off to explore the world. We avoided talking about finances, but I got the sense that she came from money, without letting it affect her over much.

She saw me off when I got on the bus to travel back to Addis Ababa where I would board a flight to Santiago, Chile. The flight provided time to sleep, and too much time to think things over. I didn’t know her last name, or whether she still lived in Ireland or merely had a permanent lilt; one that I could listen to all day, every day. I dreamt of her reading me to sleep.

I shook it off as the plane landed in Rio for refueling. I’d seen her twice in my seven months of travels, for a total of eight days between Mexico and Ethiopia. Why is she stuck in my head?

After landing in Santiago and taking a small prop plane to Punta Arenas, I had convinced myself that I’d never see her again. Boarding the research ship, I got the tour and safety lecture. There was plenty to keep my mind occupied other than romantic ideation.

The research team was a mix of scientists from organizations around the world. They were doing research on microplastics, temperatures, acidity, and the state of krill in the Southern Ocean.

I expected the boat to dock in Antarctica. Instead, when it came time to drop off two of the scientists, several dozen GPS trackers on ice spikes, and myself, we were loaded on the helicopter. As we flew over the ice, the pilot pointed out where McMurdo was in the distance, and Phoenix Airfield, closer to the ship’s location, right below us.

We disembarked and moved away quickly, as the pilot informed us a ski plane was inbound. There was little time between when the helicopter cleared the runway and the twin-engine ski plane landed.

The first person off the plane wore a chartreuse parka. Where does one even find that? The irrational part of my mind tried to tell me it was Diane, but I knew that couldn’t be right. A duffel bag of mail was set off to the side as the passengers grabbed their luggage and the plane moved to the fueling area.

The person in the chartreuse parka turned toward me, and her neon pink hair blew around her face. I wasn’t sure whether she was actually there, or I was hallucinating.

“Miranda!” She waved at me and bounded toward me as fast as she could in heavy boots, cold weather gear, and lugging a suitcase.

I’m sure I looked insensate, as I was stunned beyond words.

“You must be here for the three-week experience, right?” she asked.

I nodded. We were about to spend three weeks together in Antarctica. Somehow, all I could focus on were her eyes.

Her touch on my chin was light, gentle like her smile. “Your mouth is hanging open.” She leaned in close and whispered in my ear, “I’d be doing the same if I wasn’t nervously chattering at you. Is this fate?”

I’m not sure what I muttered, but we were interrupted by the sound of a red bus on gigantic wheels pulling to a stop. In white, block letters the bus was marked as “Ivan the Terra Bus.” Stairs folded down as the door opened.

We piled on, along with twenty or so others who had gotten off the plane. The bus had room to spare.

The ride to “downtown” McMurdo wasn’t long, but I was glad for the heat in the bus. Even in the height of summer, the temperature was still just below freezing, and the winds cut to the bone.

McMurdo looked like a military installation, all Quonset huts and utilitarian buildings. When we stopped at the “bus station,” a small wooden shelter with a bench and a sign overhead that said, “Derelict Junction,” we piled off and got our belongings.

There was a woman waiting there for those of us taking part in the “Antarctic Experience.” The seven of us followed her across the street to the brown apartment buildings. We went into the third building down and she assigned apartments to us in groups of two and three.

Diane and I ended up sharing an apartment. It was far more luxurious than I would have guessed. Each apartment was given a radio for emergency contact, and we were informed to always check in by phone or radio before venturing outside, and again once we were safely indoors.

While there wasn’t a lot to do at McMurdo aside from going to Gallagher’s Pub, McMurdo Station Pizza, and Amaza Cafe, we weren’t bored. We had each other. Diane found her way into my “zone,” where I could talk without feeling drained. I found my way into her zone as well, helping her find the calm that would let her sit quietly for a while.

It was the day before our flight back to Santiago, Chile, when she looked up at me from where she lay on my lap. “Miranda,” she asked, “is this just a vacation fling or is it more?”

“I—I’m not sure,” I said.

“I’ve been away from home for almost a year, and the second anniversary of my parents’ death is coming up. I want to go home for it, but I don’t want to be alone.” She grabbed my hand and looked away.

“Where’s home?” I asked.

“Baileyshannon, Ireland.”

I thought about the other places on my list. Visiting them alone no longer sounded enticing. In another impulsive moment I squeezed her hand. “The internet is slow here, but I can have a ticket booked before we leave. I love—I’d love to be there for you.” I felt heat crawling up my face and my voice grew timid. “And…it’s more if you really want it.”

As she lay sleeping next to me that night, I smiled. I don’t know what I was looking for, traveling to the ends of the Earth, but I ended up finding my heart.

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

The Last Manuscript

prompt: Write about a character giving something one last shot.

available at Reedsy

Agnes placed the stack of papers into the box. She ran a wrinkled hand across the cover sheet at the top.

She closed the box and sealed it with shipping tape. With a marker and a careful hand, she wrote her return address on the upper left, then the address of the publisher in the center.

That done, she moved to the kitchen to make her breakfast. A bowl on the counter and a box of cold cereal in her hand, she stopped.

“Agnes,” she said aloud to herself, “you deserve to celebrate today.”

She put the cold cereal away and made an egg, sunny-side, two strips of bacon, and piece of toast with far too much jam to be healthy. Agnes ate her breakfast in front of the radio playing the news from the local public radio station.

After the news, she knew she had half an hour until the post office opened. Unwilling to waste any time, she called for a van. It would arrive in just a few minutes. She stood waiting at the end of her driveway, leaning on her walking frame, the box sitting in the sling strung across the arms of the frame.

The van pulled to a stop and a large door opened on the side, revealing a lift. The driver jumped out and began lowering the ramp. “Good morning, Agnes!”

“Good morning indeed, Hector.”

“Sending another manuscript today?”

“You know it.”

He helped her onto the lift and closed the safety gate behind her. “Feel good about this one?”

“Oh, yes. I think it may be my best yet.” She shook her head. “It better be, anyway, as I think it’s my last.”

“Why is that, Agnes?”

“I’m not getting any younger,” she said, moving into the van proper and sitting on the nearest seat. She patted the box. “These take a lot out of me.”

Hector secured the lift and got back into the driver’s seat. “You promised to sign my copy when you get published,” he said. “I hope that’s still in the cards.”

Agnes smiled. “I don’t have any reason to think they’ll treat this one any different to the others, but I still have to try, don’t I?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Hector pulled out into traffic and began the journey to the post office. “Your determination is inspiring. Every time I think work and school and the baby is too much, I think of you. ‘Agnes wouldn’t quit,’ I think, and I keep on.”

“I don’t know about all that.” Agnes shifted in her seat. “I never had to do so much at once as you.”

After helping her off at the post office, Hector asked, “Are you going home after this, or do you have some other errands to run?”

“I’ll be heading back home. Wouldn’t want to keep you all to myself all day,” she said with a smile.

“I’d be okay with that.” Hector smiled back at her as she toddled into the lobby.

Agnes was the first in line and set the box on the counter. Once it was weighed, postage applied, and she’d paid with bills she’d removed from the neatly folded stack in her purse, she thanked the clerk and went back out.

Hector was waiting with the van running and the lift down. “In a hurry to get rid of me?” she asked.

Hector laughed. “No, ma’am, just didn’t want you to have to wait for me. Instead of wasting your energy standing around, you might have something more exciting planned.”

“This was enough excitement for me, today.”

“Aww, does that mean no drag racing on the way home?”

Agnes laughed. “Thanks for entertaining an old lady.”

Hector jumped backed into the driver’s seat. “You’re my favorite rider.”

“You probably say that to all the ladies.”

“No, ma’am. Only the nice ones.” Hector beamed a smile in the rear-view mirror. “You’d be surprised how many innocent-looking little old grannies are down-right foul-tempered.”

“No, not really,” Agnes said. “You don’t get to be ninety-seven without learning something about people. Everyone has the capacity for good or evil. Most people have a fair bit of good in them, but too many are afraid to let it out.”

“I’ll have to remember that.” Hector pulled to a smooth stop in front of her house. He helped her out and gave a slight bow. “Have a wonderful day, Agnes. And have faith. They’ll want this one.”

“Thank you, Hector. Always such a polite young man.” She took a few steps toward her door and stopped to turn back. “I hope you don’t go flirting like this all the time. Some are not so savvy and worldly as me. Wouldn’t want you breaking hearts.”

Hector laughed. “No, ma’am; no flirting. I’ll behave myself.”

Agnes settled into the armchair in her bedroom, the television showing the local news. To her right stood two piles of manuscript mailing boxes, each with their rejection letters in an envelope taped neatly to the top. The piles, forty years of work, stood nearly as tall as Agnes.

If number eighty didn’t sell, Agnes didn’t think she’d try again. Even though she’d moved from a typewriter to a computer years ago, her fingers still ached after a couple hours of typing. Add to that the annoying sound of the printer when it came time to send a manuscript out….

She wondered what Hector would think if he read the latest. Would he recognize himself as the protagonist? There was just something about him that sparked an idea for her. An heroic tale of a desperate last stand, with “Jorge” defending his family against a tyrannical warlord.

Agnes chuckled. She realized that Jorge was as much her as it was Hector. Not that she was fighting tyrannical warlords, but she might as well be. The publishing industry didn’t want manuscripts from unknown writers with no agents, and agents weren’t interested in an author her age.

She pulled the last box off the pile and looked at the most recent rejection letter. It wasn’t a form letter for a change. Someone had read the manuscript. They’d praised the writing as tight, and the story as engaging, but the tone didn’t fit what they were looking for.

The letter ended with the reader saying they looked forward to any future manuscripts, especially if they were more action oriented. The one she’d just sent off was, indeed, that.

A hopeful smile crossed her face as she nodded off in the chair. She dreamt of seeing her book in print and signing a copy for Hector.

She woke to a sharp pain in her chest, a pounding in her ears. She knew she was drawing her final breaths. In that moment, she also knew that it didn’t matter whether her book was published; what mattered was that she had never stopped trying.

Trunk Stories

What He Wanted

prompt: Write about a missing person nobody seems to know or remember.

available at Reedsy

It started with an anonymous missing person tip on the city police website. In the following weeks, flyers began to appear on utility poles like an unlikely pox, spreading out in all directions from the city center.

By the time the news picked up the story, it was to tell everyone about the “mysterious disappearance” of Kyle Smith, assistant to the city council secretary. Bob Keller, the council secretary was nervously vague when asked what kind of person Kyle was.

“I, uh, guess I would have to say he was quiet,” Bob said. “I mean, I can see all his employment and pay history, including his signature on hundreds of documents that passed through my office, but….” He cleared his throat. “To be honest, I don’t remember ever seeing him, much less talking to him.”

The news anchor’s face replaced the pre-recorded interview. Her smile was practiced and plastic; completely out of place given the nature of the story. “Perhaps the most mysterious part of this entire case is that no one we interviewed had any recollection of Mr. Smith.

“Police have combed his residence in the Graham Tower complex for clues. All they were able to determine was that he had lived there for nine years, and not a single neighbor recalled seeing him. DMV have provided this photo from his current driver’s license. If you see this man, please call the hotline at the number below.”

Her plastic smile extended to near-unrealistic proportions. “Now here’s Susan with the weather.”

 Sid muted the TV above the bar. “Anybody here recognize this guy?” he asked.

There were grunts of dissent and shaking of heads. The patrons quickly lost interest in the subject and began pleading with Sid to switch the TV over to the game.

A chyron scrolled beneath the game. “Missing 42 days: Kyle Smith’s car found abandoned off I-5. Police fear missing man dead.”

“Shit.” Ally waved Sid over. “Another.”

He pulled a bottle of imported beer out of the cooler, removed the cap, and exchanged it with her empty. “Problem?”

“We have a leak in the department,” she said. “No one was supposed to pass anything to the press until we were done processing the car.”

“So the ‘feared dead’ thing? Is that legit?”

Ally grunted. “That’s pretty much been the thought after the first week. Now it’s just down to figuring out how, when, where, who, and why.”

“Isn’t it odd that someone could work in city hall for years, and no one remembers him? Not even his direct supervisor.”

“You saw the picture,” she said. “He looks like an ‘everyman,’ the type that spy agencies love to use.”

“You think he was a spy?” Sid asked.

“Nah.” Ally took a long swig of her beer. “He wouldn’t be an assistant secretary for city council here. Maybe in a city close to a military installation or a major financial and intelligence hub.”

“You think you’ll find the guy responsible?”

“Oh, yeah. It’s just a matter of time. The sick fuck has been sending us empty texts from Smith’s phone, but it never stays connected longer than it takes to send the text. It’s always when he’s on the same tower as me. I think he’s in sight of me when he texts, but we still haven’t seen him.”

Ally’s phone chimed. She checked the message. Another blank message from Smith’s phone. She called her supervisor. “Just got another one. Verify the location, I’m locking down the bar.” She lifted her beer and spilled a bit of it on her way to her lips.

“You okay?”

“Just a spasm,” she said, “probably stress and not enough sleep. Go lock the doors. No one’s leaving until we find that phone.”

#

Kyle had thought he’d enjoy the little city sprouting unexpectedly in the middle of miles upon miles of farmland. The big city where he’d grown up was too loud, too crowded, and he felt too seen.

He landed a job the second day he was in the city and moved into an apartment in a midsized complex. Still too crowded for his liking, and he had some neighbors that felt intrusive and nosy.

It was close to one year after he’d started working for the city council that he was already starting to feel too many eyes on him. He spent his free time hiding in the back stacks of the library where the rare and reference books were hidden. Then he found it; the book that contained a collection of rituals to bind demons to do one’s bidding.

He didn’t believe it, of course. He wasn’t stupid or superstitious. Still, he sounded out the nonsense words of one of the rituals there in the dim light of the library’s forgotten stacks. Feeling nothing, he chuckled and put the book back.

Kyle walked home, annoyed at the people he passed that said, “hello” or “good evening.” He just wanted to be left alone. If everyone around him could just ignore him, that would be ideal. He already did everything he could to keep his head down at work and not have cause for his boss…or anyone else…to speak to him.

Over the next couple of years, his refusal to engage with anyone approaching him or trying to speak with him began to pay off. He could come and go, unmolested and untroubled.

He had no interactions with anyone beyond that which was required to live his life. Kyle bought a coffee at 7:15 on his way to work every morning, requiring only the words “Americano, black,” and “thanks” on his part. He knew his job inside and out and had the files his boss needed ready and waiting before he was asked.

The grocery store’s self-checkout was a major boon. It didn’t require Kyle to speak to anyone, ever, and was always clear on his late Thursday night shopping trips. With his utilities and bills paid automatically through his bank, and his paycheck going into his account rather than a check, he fell into a solitary rhythm rather quickly.

Kyle was living in his perfect world, or so he thought. However, the day came that required him to speak to his boss. He hadn’t taken a vacation in nine years, and he wanted to get approval for a month off.

He entered Bob’s office, leave request in hand. “I…uh…would like to…um…get some time off, please.” He laid the request on the desk.

The council secretary continued staring at his laptop screen, not acknowledging Kyle’s presence. He continued to scroll through whatever he was watching, clicking occasionally.

Kyle walked around the desk to see what was so engaging. It was cat videos. “Bob? Mr. Keller? Hey. Could you sign my leave request?” He waved his hand between the screen and Bob’s face to no reaction. He tapped him on the shoulder; nothing. Feeling desperate, Kyle slapped Bob’s face. Still nothing.

He spent the rest of the morning wandering downtown, trying to get anyone to acknowledge his presence. It was as though he didn’t exist.

In a flash of inspiration, he went to the coffee shop where he’d ordered his coffee. Not only was he rudely pushed aside by anyone around him, but no one responded to any complaint, threat, tap, pinch or slap. It was the same at the grocery store.

After spending the day determining that no, he wasn’t invisible, and yes, he felt very much alive, he sat on his couch to figure out what he would do. He fell asleep pondering what could be done.

When he woke, he showered and changed, and decided that with or without Bob’s signature he was going on vacation. He carried his suitcase down to the garage, where he found his car had been stolen. Kyle dialed 911.

“911 dispatch, what is your emergency?”

“My car’s been stolen,” he said.

“Hello? 911 dispatch. Are you unable to talk?”

Kyle yelled into the phone. “My car! It’s been stolen!”

“Okay, if you’re not going to speak, I’m going to hang up now.”

Kyle screamed. “No!”

The call disconnected.

He decided to take another tack. Maybe he really was dead and didn’t know it. He went to the police website and tried to report his stolen car. The form told him to call 911 for vehicular theft. Trying again, he entered a missing person’s case for himself from their non-emergency contact form.

Kyle walked into the police station and found that he could go anywhere without question, assuming the door was unlocked. He followed one of the officers through the locked partition into the back of the station.

By wandering about and looking at everyone’s desk, he figured out which detective was assigned his case. Ally’s phone sat next to her, unlocked. He picked it up to get her number and sent a text from his phone to hers. He typed “I’m Kyle Smith and I’m standing right next to you,” and hit send.

Her phone chimed and showed an empty text. He tried again four more times over the next few minutes, every one of them empty on her phone. He watched as she looked up the number and discovered it was his.

Her next few hours were spent setting up a response team that could tell her what tower the texts were coming from. When she discovered that the texts had been sent from the area of the police station, officers scrambled, trying to locate him, although one said his phone was no longer “pinging,” whatever that meant.

Kyle began putting up missing posters with his picture, sending the printing job online and having them delivered to his post office box. The police staked out the post office and never saw him walking in, opening his box, and walking out with the stacks of flyers. On a whim, he attached one to the police car’s driver-side window. They didn’t notice it until their replacement got there.

After weeks of being unable to get anyone’s attention, including Ally, he decided to make it easier for her. He rode with her in the ride-share she’d taken to the bar. Neither she nor the driver noticed him.

The bar patrons were busy with the game, and Ally was suitably relaxed. No matter how he tried to get in her way, she avoided him. He put his hand where she’d been about to set her beer down, and her arm deflected so that she set it down just beyond his hand. Kyle texted her again. “I’m right next to you.”

She raised her beer again and he grabbed her wrist. “I’m right here!” he screamed into her ear. Despite spilling some of her beer, she still didn’t notice him.

He looked into the mirror behind the bar and saw a shadowy figure standing behind him. When he turned to look, it wasn’t there. He looked back in the mirror, and glowing orange eyes appeared on the figure.

The voice that rumbled through his head left no doubt that he was hearing the figure. “Are you not pleased? You got exactly what you wanted.”

Trunk Stories

Law of Fives

prompt: Write a story about a character who believes their dreams predict the future.

available at Reedsy

Sia fidgeted nervously, dark circles under her honey-gold eyes, lack of sleep dulling her golden-brown face. Her ebon hair, tied up in a sloppy bun, lacked the shine it usually had.

“Sia, are you okay?”, someone asked. “Do you need someone to talk to?”

She stared at her monitor, the work in front of her making no sense. The feeling that someone was standing next to her was sudden, causing her to jump. “Oh! Hi—hi Jace. Did you need something?”

“I was wondering the same thing,” he said, “about you.” He was slender, with pale olive skin that never saw the sun, his hair a pile of medium brown curls atop a fade. There was something about his shape or the way he carried himself that made him seem taller than his five-feet-eight.

“I, uh…I think I’ll be okay,” Sia said. “I just need some coffee.”

“Boss,” Jace said, crouching near her chair, “there’s something wrong. If you need someone to talk to, you know where to find me. For now, though, I’ll finish up the end-of-month reports and get them in to finance. You should go home and get some rest.”

“I—I guess you’re right. I’m not well.” Sia ran her hands down her legs, realizing with a small bit of horror that she was at work, at her desk, wearing her flannel pajamas. She looked at Jace, in his pressed shirt and casual slacks. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She took the back door out of the office, down the stairs rather than be seen in the elevator in her current state. Four stories down, eight flights of steps, she exited the side door where Jace stood, holding her purse.

“I figured you might need this,” he said with a smile.

Sia took the purse with a partially suppressed grimace. “Sorry, thanks.”

Jace winked. “No problem. If you need anything, give me a call; I’ll do whatever I can.”

#

After an interminable bus ride home, Sia fell on her disheveled bed, next to the work outfit she’d laid out earlier in the morning and forgot to put on. Her eyelids heavy, she started to drift off. With a jerk, she sat up and shook her head. She wasn’t ready to see it again.

To keep herself awake, she put away the clothes she’d laid out, made the bed, and started a pot of coffee. She turned on the TV to the annoying daytime talk shows and turned the volume up. That would keep her awake while she cleaned.

By the time the coffee pot was empty and the apartment spotless, Sia was moving in a daze. The staged fights of the talk shows were long over, and a sleepy, calm show about home repair had been on for a while.

She considered making another pot of coffee, but her insides were already protesting. Instead, she sat in the corner chair; the one that was there for looks as it was far too uncomfortable to be sat in.

#

It was starting again. The sky turned dark, heavy clouds blocking out the sun. A bright streak illuminated the clouds from above, followed by an ear-shattering boom.

The streak broke through the clouds, a glowing ball of light that lit up the sky like the sun before it exploded in the city center. The shockwave rolled over her with the rumbling sound of thunder times a thousand. A cloud of dust and ash rose above the ruined buildings, even as thousands of shards of glass and metal rained down around her.

As quickly as it began, it ended, and she found herself at her desk. Jace was there, and a shadowy figure dumped scalding coffee down his back. His yelp of pain woke her.

#

Sia was stiff and sore from sleeping in the hard, uncomfortable chair. The TV was showing an infomercial for a “miracle” cleaning product, the volume still loud.

She turned off the TV and checked the time; 1:04 A.M., still hours to go before the next day. As much as she didn’t want to sleep again, her body won out, and she stretched out on her bed, trying to loosen the knots in her back.

#

She woke early the next morning, took a long shower, dried her hair and spent thirty minutes brushing it to its usual luster. The coffee pot sat unused as she dressed in a smart skirt and blouse.

Sia was the first in the office. Not surprising as she was nearly an hour early. She went through her emails from the previous day; most of them were “Get well soon” messages.

By the time the rest of the office was in, she was in her groove, getting caught up on the work she’d missed the previous day. The rational part of her brain chided her for thinking that just because she dreamt a thing it would come true.

Sia had almost convinced herself that her dreams don’t come true, when Jace approached. His face brightened when he saw her.

“You look great today! Feeling better?”

“I remembered to dress today,” she said with an embarrassed chuckle. “What’s up?”

“Can you open the link I sent you?” Jace asked. “I have a question about that account.”

She opened the account, and Jace bent over to point at the account’s usage totals. “The month-over-month doesn’t line up with the billing,” he said, pointing. “See here?”

Sia looked behind him and saw Sarah, one of the finance techs carrying a coffee cup coming towards them. She grabbed Jace’s arm. “Don’t move,” she said.

Sarah walked behind them. “Morning,” she said as she went by.

Sia let go, and Jace stood. “What was that about?” he asked.

“In my dream, you got scalding hot coffee down your back.” She shuddered. “It would have happened if I hadn’t stopped you.”

“Thanks for saving me?” He smiled, but something about it seemed off. “Does this happen often? I mean, dreams coming true?”

Sia shook her head. “It feels like it just started a couple weeks ago. I started having a recurring nightmare, and then I’d have some dream about something mundane and then the other thing would happen the next day.”

“Exactly the way you dreamt it?”

“Not exactly,” she said, “but close enough.”

“And I suppose,” he said, “that you’ve been trying not to sleep, in order to skip the nightmare.”

Sia nodded. She locked her computer and leaned back. “It caught up to me yesterday and I couldn’t stay awake any longer. That’s how I knew you were about to get burned just now.”

“Let’s go for a walk and you can tell me about the nightmare that’s keeping you up.”

They walked to the park a block away from the office and sat on a bench while she told him the entire story. He listened, nodding at the appropriate moments.

“Do you sleep with the TV on?” he asked.

“Only if I fall asleep watching the late-night news,” she said.

“I wouldn’t have gotten burned this morning,” he said.

“If you had stood up, you would’ve bumped into Sarah, and she would’ve spilled on you.”

“And it would’ve really sucked,” he said. “Her morning beverage is kombucha with turmeric.” He shuddered. “It’s gross and it smells terrible.”

“It wasn’t hot coffee?”

Jace shook his head. “And your nightmare isn’t coming true, either.” He fiddled with his phone, then handed it to her. “Press play.”

She started the video. It was her nightmare, in exact detail, right up to the shower of glass and metal. The screen went black, then the words, “Coming to theaters in July. Not yet rated.”

“It’s a…movie?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he said, “but the trailer is only showing online or late-late night. There’s other trailers online that are longer, but that’s the one you’ve been seeing.”

“But the city…it’s…”

“It’s set here,” he said. He pointed to his right.

Sia saw the same view as the nightmare, the trailer. “I—I’m relieved, but at the same time…it’s just so strange.”

“I can understand,” he said. “You said the other dreams were mundane things that happened the next day?”

Sia nodded. “Yeah.”

“Tell me more about the ones that come true,” he said.

“Well, the first was that I was about to cross the street at the office, but a delivery van ran the red. If I hadn’t waited, I’d have been flattened.”

“And that happened?” he asked.

“Well, it was a big truck, but pretty much.”

“Pretty common at that corner. Any others?”

She told him about a few other dreams that came true…mostly.

“Have you heard of the Law of Fives?”

“No, what’s that?”

He gestured around them. “How many fives can you find around here?”

She looked around. “There’s one on that building address, and one on that license plate. Not seeing any others.”

He looked around for a moment. “How many ducks are on the pond?”

“Oh, five.”

“The box truck over there, what are the numbers?”

“One one three…oh, that adds to five.”

“How many more cars parked on the other side of the road than this side on this block?”

“Six on that side, one on this, that’s five…this is weird,” she said.

“The Law of Fives basically breaks down to, if you go looking hard enough for fives, you’ll find them everywhere.”

She felt a wash of embarrassment. “Confirmation bias. It’s how people keep believing in horoscopes and fortune tellers.”

He smiled. “Don’t worry about it. Fooling ourselves from time to time is part of being human.”