Tag: drama

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

Homecoming

prompt: Write about a character who visits their hometown for the holidays and reconnects with a former love interest.

available at Reedsy

It was the first time in ages I’d returned; eight years, one month, and five days. Not that I was keeping count, but the exact date I’d left was seared into my memory. When I was released from the hospital in the city, I stayed rather than go back to my former home.

The fir tree in front of city hall — the one that was lit up every year for Christmas — had grown. The lights were gaudier than they used to be; bright pinks, cyan, chartreuse, and an aggressive shade of orange that somehow clashed with everything else.

They’d added Chanukah and Kwanza decorations. Someone had printed a “Happy Festivus” sign and affixed it to the empty signpost that had stood in the middle of the lawn for some unknown reason since I was a child.

I thought I’d feel fear, or maybe revulsion at seeing the town again, but I felt…empty. Maybe a few years in the city, learning to live and navigate the hazards as a woman had inured me to the danger I used to feel in this town.

I decided I’d spent enough time gawking at the hideous light display and drove the rental to the hotel. It sat on what used to be the Baxter’s corn field. The parking lot at the rear of the hotel gave me a clear line of sight to where their house used to be. It was paved over and replaced with a mini mall. The sporting goods store stood where the barn used to be.

The room I was given faced out the back side to the shopping center. I could still see the barn in my mind — every warped board and peel of paint. I remembered him hoisting me up to the hayloft atop a bale of hay. Probably not safe, but fun.

I remembered him sneaking his dad’s cigarettes. We’d gotten sick after sharing one of them. I remembered him — I remembered him.

I pulled the curtains shut tight and lay on the bed where I cried myself to sleep. At some point in the middle of the night, I showered and went to bed proper. I still woke before dawn.

Dot’s Cafe had been updated. It had been unchanged for my whole life before I left, so the difference was jarring. Dot was still there, seated in her reserved booth she occupied when she was in. Even though her name was on the place, she hadn’t owned it for at least twenty years, but she was treated as royalty.

She had to be close to a hundred. The deepened wrinkles, thinned hair, and paled complexion hurt me to see. Dot was still sharp of eye and mind, though.

Dot waved me over the minute I walked in, stared straight into my eyes, and said, “You were that Williams boy. Greg, right?”

I wasn’t going to jump on a little old lady for deadnaming me, especially since she hadn’t seen me since before I transitioned. “I’m Grace now. It’s good to see you, Dot.”

She laughed. “You look righter as Grace than Greg. You never did fit in your skin but now you do.”

“Thank you, Dot. That’s very kind of you.”

“Ah, nonsense.” She waved a hand. “You should go and get your breakfast, young lady.”

I found a booth away from the door and sat down. A menu appeared from over my shoulder as the waitress approached. She stared for a moment. I knew the look. I’d seen it time and again early in my transition. It was a look that said, “you almost look like what I expect, but not quite.” I also caught sight of the ally pin.

I cleared my throat as I took the menu.

“I-I’m so sorry, Grace,” she said. “I overheard Dot, but how could she tell? You look so different.”

Her voice sent a chill down my spine. I’d been so wrapped in my own head that I didn’t recognize her at first. “Sophie?”

“Yeah.” She seemed to shrink. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m a different person now,” I said. “Maybe you are, too?”

She nodded. “I hope so.” She wiped her tears with the back of her hand and gave a half-hearted laugh. “What can I get you?”

When I’d finished my breakfast, Sophie returned with the check and asked, “Are you going to see Jason today?”

I nodded. “That’s the only reason I’m here.”

“Would it be okay…I mean…can I…?”

I took her hand in mine. “Would you like to join me?” I asked. “I honestly don’t know if I can face him alone.”

Sophie sniffled and nodded. “You going now?”

“Yeah.”

“Give me five minutes.”

She went in the back and came back minus the apron in just a couple minutes. Judging by the yelling, it wasn’t appreciated, but Dot settled it with a single “tut.”

Sophie rode in the rental with me. She was quiet at first, but I could tell she had something to say.

“I…I was terrible to you and Jason.”

“You weren’t the only one,” I said. The taunts and names and bullying we endured were a constant of my high school experience.

“I felt so guilty about it…I drank to drown the guilt. All it got me was two DUIs, a totaled car, a suspended license and a year in lockup.”

“What did you have to feel guilty about? Yeah, you called us names, but that night, even, you stood up for—”

“I should’ve called you — warned you that Stephen was coming.”

“How could you have?”

We walked through the gate. “I…got your number from your dad the day before the dance. He wanted me to ‘talk some sense into you.’”

“I’m not surprised.”

“You haven’t been here yet, have you?”

I shook my head “no” and Sophie led the way to Jason. She’d obviously been here before.

“Jason,” I said, “I miss you. Came back just to talk to you. I told you I’d transition as soon as I left home, and I did. I’m the real me now. I know we can’t get married now, but when I transitioned, I took your last name. I didn’t want to be a Williams anymore. I hope that’s okay.”

The tears rolled down my face as I knelt beside the headstone. “Jason Baxter, gone too soon. He loved with brave ferocity and was loved in equal measure.”

There were fresh flowers in the cup on the headstone, along with a faded pride flag. I let my fingers trace the letters on the stone. “I thought his parents disowned him but…this looks like an expensive headstone.”

Sophie knelt beside me and put her arm around my shoulders. “They did. There was just a little marker here with his name on a plastic card. I bought the headstone. It was the only way I knew to apologize to him.”

She broke down into sobs, and I could no longer hold back my own. We held each other until we were cried out. She kept repeating, “I’m so sorry,” into my shoulder the whole time.

I stood and helped her to her feet. “I get it, Sophie, but you were a kid…we were all kids. You can’t blame yourself for what your brother did.”

“He saw the two of you leaving Homecoming when he picked me up and started saying crazy shit. He couldn’t wait to drop me at home so he could go after you.”

I looked into her eyes and saw someone who was haunted. “You are not to blame, but I forgive you.”

“If you knew he was coming you could’ve gotten away. Maybe if I’d called the police sooner….”

“Could’ve, should’ve, would’ve…you’re not doing yourself any favors. You have to let go of the guilt. Sophie, listen. Your brother’s in prison where he belongs. I was still in the hospital at the time, but I heard your testimony helped put him there. You’ve done everything you can and more than you should.”

As we walked back to the car, I said, “That dance was the first time I wore a dress in public. I was so scared, but Jason was sweet. The jocks taking tickets didn’t want to let us in until you told them off. I think you said something about my dress being pretty, but I don’t remember for sure.”

“I said ‘He has more balls than all of you put together to show up in a pretty dress, so let them in.’ I was already feeling bad for jumping on the bandwagon to bully you two when you looked so happy together. I was jealous that it wasn’t like that for me with my boyfriends.”

“High school romance seems pretty meaningless now, though, doesn’t it?”

She laughed, the first genuine laugh I’d heard from her all day. “It does. Hey, are you in contact with your folks?”

“No. The last time Mom called was six years ago to cry about how I didn’t make any grandkids before I ‘threw away the body God gave me,’ and the last time Dad called was on my birthday four years ago. The first thing he did after saying ‘Happy Birthday’ was deadname and misgender me.

“I told him, ‘Your son, Greg, is dead. If you can’t deal with your daughter Grace as I am, then you’re dead to me, too.’ We haven’t spoken since.”

“That sucks.” Sophie leaned her head on my shoulder. “If you want, I’ll be your sister. My family shunned me after I testified against Stephen. They still won’t answer calls or texts, and anything I mail to them gets sent back. I gave up a couple years ago.”

I gave her a ride back to Dot’s and we exchanged numbers. “I’m glad I ran into you, and I’m glad you turned into the person you are,” I said.

“I’m glad you don’t hate me, and I’m glad I got to finally meet the real you,” she said. “Will you be back?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Either way, keep in touch, right?”

“Right.”

I drove back to the airport feeling a mixture of relief and sorrow at leaving. I wasn’t sure whether I’d make another homecoming trip, but at least I knew it wasn’t as dire as I’d feared.

Trunk Stories

Finding the Light

prompt: Your character finally gives into a temptation they’ve been avoiding, and becomes better because of it. 

available at Reedsy

Pity was the one and only thing Kira was supposed to be feeling for the woman in front of her, but what she felt was very different. The woman was one of the “near-blessed.” With lighter eyes, she would be one of the chosen, like Kira and her family. Still, she sought her out every morning when she bought her coffee.

The woman finished counting out Kira’s change and handed it to her. She made a point of looking at the sun pendant Kira wore. “Church of True Light. You a believer?”

“I—I guess…I mean, uh, yes.” Kira took her change and left a tip in the jar. “May the Light guide you.”

The woman slid a business card to Kira, her hand making the movements of the secret greeting of the church. “My number’s on there. Any time you want to talk, I’m available.”

Kira felt her cheeks burn as she hid the card in her coat and rushed out the door. What she felt was not pity, but envy, mixed with something else she couldn’t identify. Why did the barista get to live as she desired without divine retribution, but not Kira?

As she sat on the bus to her place of work, she avoided the stares of the unblessed and near-blessed while she read from the Book. Letting it fall open at random was supposed to be a way for the Light to be one’s guide. In Kira’s case, she’d read these passages so many times, the binding was broken there. It told how the Light would only inflame lust in the hearts of those joined in marriage.

Kira read it again anyway. She had no feeling beyond disgust in her heart for Jerad, the man she was to marry. Their parents had arranged it years ago in accordance with the church laws.

She thought about the card again, and the way she’d slid it over. The secret greeting; only the fully blessed and chosen were taught that.

The near-blessed could join the church, but to be fully blessed and considered one of the chosen they had to forego any sort of occupation other than volunteering full time for the church. After at least a year, they could be blessed into the fold in a Confirmation ceremony where they would learn the hand movements. The barista knew the signal but didn’t wear the sun pendant nor dress conservative. In fact, her usual style was downright provocative.

Kira slid the card out of her inner coat pocket and looked at it. Anika, she thought, pretty name; it suits her. The image of Anika’s bright smile and the sparkle in her eyes that made Kira’s mornings bearable filled her mind. A surge of guilt and shame washed over her, and she stuffed the card back into her coat’s inner pocket. She scanned the people around her on the bus, concerned that they could somehow see her sin. She returned to her reading.

“The lust of the chosen for those not chosen is not the work of Light but of Darkness. Just as the lust of a man for a man or a woman for a woman is Darkness moving over the heart, damning them to an eternity in Torment with the unblessed.

“When Darkness has thus swayed the heart of the chosen, the Light will strike them down to death, and remove their soul from the register of the blessed. Their soul shall be locked forever in Torment, their eyes forever looking up to the blessed in Paradise.”

Kira closed her holy book and sipped at her coffee. She’d convinced herself that she always waited to be served by Anika because she made the coffee better than any of the other baristas, but she no longer believed her internal lie. As she held the warm cup, she imagined Anika’s fingers entwined with hers and a hot blush rose on her cheeks.

She wondered what it would feel like to have Anika as close as the cup to her lips. The steam rising to meet them became Anika’s breath in her fantasy before she regained control of her thoughts. The guilt rose again. That she hadn’t been struck down dead meant she hadn’t crossed the line — wherever that was.

Many of her coworkers were the unblessed, yet most of them were friendly, kind, thoughtful — the kind of person one would like to have a friend. The priests warned about that, though, the veneer of good that Darkness put over its minions to lure the chosen away from the Light. Kira couldn’t see it, though, not anymore. If the goodness of her coworkers was a “veneer,” it was still far deeper than that of many of the church members, her own parents included.

She’d had a long discussion with one of them at a quiet lunch, once. They were gentle with their words as they encouraged Kira to think for herself, to make her own life choices. They had finished by saying, “If you decide, for yourself, that you want to stay in the church, by all means, do. If you’re just staying there because you were raised in it, try learning about the options before you resign yourself to it.”

Kira thought then that she knew enough about the “options,” all of them different facets of the Darkness, while there was only the one Church of True Light. Now, however, she wondered how much she’d been taught by the church was correct, and how much was distorted.

At the close of her workday, Kira stopped a block short of the bus stop. She couldn’t face going home to dinner with her family, her betrothed, and his family. She looked at the card again. Anika had written her name with a swooping, swirling elegance.

Kira pulled out her phone, keyed in Anika’s number, then cleared it out. She called home, telling her mother she had to work late. Lies were not the worst sin, but she’d never told such a bald-faced lie like that. Her ears burned even as she disconnected the call.

She keyed in the number again, took a deep breath, then rang through.

“Hello?”

Kira let out the breath she hadn’t been aware she was holding. “A—Anika? This is Kira…from the coffee shop.”

“Hi, Kira! I’m glad you called.”

“Ca—can you meet me downtown somewhere? I don’t want to go home and —”

“Say no more. Water Sculpture Park? Thirty minutes?”

“Yeah…I mean, yes, I can meet you there.”

The walk took her ten minutes, and she found herself worrying about how she looked. She never worried about that with Jerad, even though the Book said women should always present their best to their mate.

After pacing for a few minutes, she forced herself to sit on one of the benches facing the fountains. She let the sparkle of late afternoon sun in the water clear her mind.

“Hey. Good to see you somewhere other than work.” Anika sat near her on the bench. She was still dressed as she did for work, in shorts and a tight shirt, but she was wearing more makeup, and her hair was down, falling in waves over her neck and shoulders.

The sight took Kira’s breath away. “Hi,” she managed to get out.

Anika smiled and Kira knew now that what she was feeling was indeed a sin. Darkness stood only half a step from stealing her soul.

“You’re probably wondering how I knew the greeting,” Anika said. “I was raised in the church, Confirmed at age twelve, just like you.”

“But you’re—”

“Near-blessed. Same as my folks. They grew up in the church, too, and were married off to each other.” Anika snorted. “They still live together, and are still married, if you call never speaking to each other marriage.”

“I’m sorry. That sounds horrible.”

“It was. Now, I’m on my own and don’t have to deal with them, since I’ve been excommunicated. According to the priests, Anika is dead, and I’m an agent of darkness taking her place. According to me, the priests, the Book, and the entire church are full of shit. …Sorry.”

Kira had trouble following what Anika was talking about. Her lips were dry, and she licked them. “Could I…hold your hand?”

Anika scooted closer and grabbed Kira’s hand. “I would very much like that.”

Kira gathered her courage. “I think…I might have…lust in my heart for you.”

Anika smiled. “It’s not the most cringe line I’ve ever heard, but I understand the church doesn’t give you the language to express what you’re feeling. I think you’re pretty hot, too.”

Kira let her body take over. She leaned close to Anika, until she felt her breath on her lips, and then kissed her. Her body felt more alive than ever, her heart racing, her skin tingling.

She pulled away. Tears rolled down her cheeks. She knew she was damned. “I—I’m sorry. I should go before the Light strikes me—”

Anika stopped her with a finger on her lips. “Don’t apologize. You did nothing wrong, and I liked it. If you haven’t figured it out yet, you’re not going to be struck down to death. The Light and the Darkness, along with Paradise and Torment are nothing more than myths meant to exert control.”

“But…it’s wrong! It’s darkness.”

“No. Being who you are is not wrong.” Anika lifted Kira’s chin to bring her gaze up to her own. “If being yourself is wrong, then you’re saying I’m wrong. Am I darkness to you?”

Kira shook her head. She wanted to tell Anika that she was the only real light she had in her life. She wanted to tell her that she couldn’t imagine a time that she’d never be able to see her again, just to be in her presence. All she could manage was, “No, not darkness.”

Anika held her as she sobbed in a mix of fear, relief, and the first real kind touch she’d ever experienced. When she’d caught her breath, and come up from the tempest of her emotion, she lay her head on Anika’s shoulder. “What do I do now?”

Anika wiped Kira’s tears with her thumb. “I see no ring, but you’re working, which means either you or your future husband aren’t yet twenty.”

“I—I’m twenty, he turns twenty in six months.”

“And what do you think of him?”

“He disgusts me.”

“Is he nasty?”

“No. I mean…he’s very clean and polite and goes out of his way to try to make me happy, but the thought of….”

“The thought of what? Kissing him? Sex?”

“Ugh. Any of that. Even hugging feels gross. He sighs and I can tell he’s getting excited, and it makes me want to puke.”

“The way I see it, you can either put your head in the sand, pretend none of this happened, and go back to a horrible life in the church making chosen babies with the man that disgusts you, or….”

“Or?”

“You go home, tell your parents you’re gay, and you’re not going to marry him.”

“But they’ll kick me out…and the church…I don’t know….” Kira shivered.

“I’ve been there.” Anika held her tighter. “I’ve been exactly where you are now. You should pack your bags before you say anything. Just what you need and can carry. You can stay at my place tonight — on the couch. As much as I’d want to do more, we should get to know each other better first. Tomorrow, I’ll help you get a spot in the shelter for the short term, and then help you find your own place.”

“So, just go pack, and say, ‘Hey Mom and Dad, I’m gay?’”

“That’s pretty much how it went for me, only I had to do it twice, since they’re never in the same room together.” Anika sighed. “Well, that, plus a lot of screaming.”

“Ca—can you come with me?”

Anika nodded. “I can provide moral support. I won’t say a word, though, unless you ask me to.”

Kira felt as though she’d just stepped off a cliff and had no idea where she would land. “I’m really scared, but if I don’t do it tonight, I’ll never be able to. Let’s go catch the bus.”

Anika held up a set of keys. “I’ll drive, instead.”

Jerad and his parents were still there when they pulled up. Kira led Anika to her room without saying anything to anyone and packed in a frenzy. Anika helped where she could, reminding her to take deep breaths and find her calm center.

When they walked together into the dining room, Kira’s mother said, “Is this someone from work? Are you ministering to the near-blessed to bring them into the Light?”

Kira took a deep breath. “Mom, Dad, I have something to say. Jerad, you’re a very nice man and will probably make a good husband for someone…just not me. I don’t like men, I like women. I’m…gay.”

The screaming and accusations began immediately, with everyone piling on Anika as being an agent of Darkness, corrupting the poor chosen girl. For her part, Anika kept a neutral expression apart from a raised eyebrow.

Kira couldn’t take the screaming any longer. “Shut up!”

When she had everyone’s attention she said, “Anika is not an agent of Darkness. She didn’t corrupt me. I’m just the way I am. If you can’t deal with that, too bad.”

Shadows fell across her father’s eyes as his brow furrowed. “Get out of this house and never come back. The Light will smite you dead, but you are already dead to us.”

She spent six weeks in the shelter before she had enough saved up to rent her own place. Without the church taking most of her income, she could afford to live close to work, but she chose to live close to the bus depot, where she could get her morning coffee from Anika.

In the months that followed, she began to really listen to her coworkers. She found out that some of them were members of other faiths and were happy to explain what those faiths were about. One of her coworkers said he used to belong to a cult, and talked about how difficult it was to adjust to life outside of it.

The more Kira talked to him, and the more time she spent with Anika, the more she felt called to do something to help others. She began spending her evenings online talking to others in a similar situation. She found a group that had regular meetings in several cities, but not hers. She called around to counselors in the area, until she found someone willing to help.

Kira called Anika. “Hey, An, you have plans for this evening?”

“Not unless you want to take me out somewhere.”

“That’s good. It’s not exactly romantic, but it’s important to me and I’d like you to be there.”

Anika chuckled on the other end. “That’s all you had to say, lady. It’s a date. Fancy? What time should I pick you up?”

“Casual. I’ll text you an address. If you could just meet me here at six-thirty, that would work. I’ll pay for a late dinner after.”

“See you then.”

Kira put her phone away and checked the room again. “Dr. Park, do you think we need more chairs? Or maybe fewer chairs? Are the coffee and cookies all right or is that too much?”

“I told you, Kira, just call me Da-Eun.” The counselor laughed. “Relax. This is the same setup we use for the twelve-step programs, and what you’re doing is not that different.”

People began to trickle in, one and two at a time. They grabbed coffee, cookies, and began talking amongst themselves. Kira became more nervous as six-thirty approached, until Anika walked in and made a beeline for her.

Anika hugged her and gave her a kiss. “Hey, Sweetie. Oh! Am I not supposed to do that here?”

Kira pulled Anika in and squeezed her. “It’s fine. I’m glad you’re here.”

Da-Eun spoke up loud enough for everyone to hear. “Good evening, everyone. If you’ll take a seat, we can begin.”

After everyone was settled, she said, “Welcome to the first meeting — in this city, at least — of Life After Religion. Let’s all give a big thank-you to Kira, who you may know as ‘NoMoreFakeLight’ online, who made this possible.”

Kira felt a swell of pride, but it wasn’t dark or sinful or anything of the sort. She’d worked hard to make this night happen, and she deserved to be proud of her accomplishment. “Thanks. I’m just glad we can all meet up like this and really get to know each other.”

Da-Eun smiled. “I’m here as an advisor, and a sounding board, but this meeting belongs to all of you. Kira, why don’t you kick it off?”

Kira rose. “Let’s start with introductions. My name’s Kira, and I left the Church of True Light eleven months ago. Being a lesbian doesn’t make me evil or dark. It’s just who I am.”

Kira sat and Anika squeezed her hand before standing.

“Hi. I’m Anika….”

“Life After Religion” is a fictional group, but there is real help out there. If you or someone you know needs help adjusting to life after religion, Recovery from Religion is there for you.

Doubt Your Beliefs? Have Questions About Changing Or Leaving Your Faith?

You Are Not Alone, And We Are Here To Help.

Learning how to live after questions, doubts, and changing beliefs is a journey. We at Recovering from Religion are intimately familiar with this path, and we are here to help you to cross that bridge. Our passion is connecting others with support, resources, community, and most of all, hope. We have two forms of support available below: peer support and professional support. 

https://www.recoveringfromreligion.org/#rfr-welcome
Trunk Stories

All I Have Left

prompt: Write about a character who is starting to open up to life again.

available at Reedsy

Gabrielle picked up the phone and called the only number stored in her contacts. When the voice on the other end answered, she said, “Soph, it’s Gabs. Could you…come over? I think I need some help.”

Sophia gave a light knock at the door. The woman who answered looked nothing like the woman she’d known. Gaunt and disheveled, her once rosy skin gone pale, her eyes sunken and tired, she swam in clothes five sizes too large. Her normally vibrant orange hair was dulled.

The apartment showed no sign of having been cleaned, thick dust on every surface, save the urn that sat on the coffee table. The kitchen looked unused beyond a mug on the counter and a garbage bag, partially filled with take-out containers.

“Oh, Gabs.” Sophia hugged her, careful not to squeeze her frail frame too hard. “I’m here. I’m always available for you.”

Gabrielle sobbed on Sophia’s shoulder until she had no more strength. “I think…maybe…I need to get out — just a little bit.”

“When was the last time you ate?”

“I had Chinese yesterday.” Gabrielle sunk into the sofa in the living room. “There’s leftovers in the fridge if you want something.”

Sophia checked the refrigerator. There was a carton of a beef and vegetable main that hadn’t been touched, and two small cartons of rice, one of which was missing about a third, with a plastic fork stuck in it.

She checked the trash bag but saw no other containers from the Chinese take-out there. She went back out to the living room and sat beside Gabrielle.

“All you ate yesterday was a little bit of rice?”

Gabrielle nodded. “I haven’t been hungry.”

“I see that.” Sophia put an arm around her. “First thing, we’re going to get you freshened up and then I’m taking you to the doctor.”

“I’m not sick.”

“Maybe not, but have you been eating like this since….”

“I don’t know.”

“Gabs, I haven’t seen you in a year. You called me every month and told me you were okay.” Sophia leaned her head on Gabrielle’s. “You didn’t have to lie to me.”

“And if I’d said I wasn’t ok?”

“I would’ve been right here for you.”

“You mean well, but I needed to be alone with….”

Sophia stood and offered a hand to Gabrielle. “Come on, girl. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

“You’re serious?”

“I am.”

The mirror in the bathroom had been covered with a towel, and when Sophia reached out to take it off Gabrielle stopped her. “Don’t. I look like….”

“Like what?”

“Like shit.”

After holding Gabrielle up in the shower so she could wash her hair, getting it dried and in a ponytail, Sophia redressed and called her doctor. She spoke with him, setting up an appointment and getting his recommendations for feeding her in the meantime.

Gabrielle came out of her bedroom, dressed in sweats that hung off her. “I feel like I’m dressed in my big brother’s clothes,” she said.

“Not a problem. We’re not going anywhere fancy.” Sophia stood and offered Gabrielle a hand.

“Off to the doctor’s?” she asked.

“You have an appointment Thursday morning. I’ll get you there and back. For today, we’re going shopping, after lunch.”

Gabrielle looked down at herself. “Like this?”

“Nowhere it’ll be a problem, I promise.” Sophia put an arm around her shoulders. “We’re going to the diner.”

“I haven’t had a burger in months…a year maybe.”

“No burgers right away. Doc says to start you on eggs, potato, and rice.”

“Because I’m…starved?”

“Yeah. Starch for immediate energy, and eggs are easy-to-digest proteins. We’re also going to pick up some multi-vitamins, and maybe something that fits you for now. Just to hold you over until you get back in shape.”

Gabrielle let out a short laugh. “Usually that means, ‘When you get thin,’ but you’re talking about getting fatter.”

“Not just fat, muscle too, you know.” Sophia paused at the door. “Doc asked if I knew when your last menstrual cycle was.”

“They’ve been irregular since…then. I think the last was a couple months ago, but it was light.”

Gabrielle hid her face from passing cars as they rode to the diner. It took a bit of “convincing” — Sophia just being stubbornly insistent — to get Gabrielle to leave the car and enter the diner.

Sophia ordered for both of them.

“No coffee?” Gabrielle asked.

“Doc says you should avoid caffeine until after he sees you and gives you the all-clear.”

“He’s not here, Soph.”

“I am, though, and don’t think I won’t tell on you.” Sophia grabbed her hand. “How about some decaf?”

Gabrielle shook her head. “No. I’ve only been drinking water anyway.”

Gabrielle’s lunch consisted of one-and-a-half eggs, a bite of Sophia’s toast, and a bite of hash brown potatoes, with a small glass of orange juice.

Sophia smiled at her.

“What?”

“You’ve got a little color back in your cheeks.”

By the time they reached the department store, Gabrielle was out of energy to walk around and begged to go back home. Not to be deterred, Sophia put her in one of the electric carts.

“I’m not handicapped.”

“Gabs…can you walk right now?”

“No.”

“Use the cart.”

The first stop was the women’s clothing section. After trying on a few different items with Sophia’s help, they found a decent pair of jeans, a few shirts on sale, a set of sweats that fit, and pajamas.

Gabrielle tried to put the pajamas back, and Sophia stopped her. “Why are you putting that back?”

“I don’t want to buy pajamas. I almost never wear them.”

“You’re not buying shit.”

“I can buy my own clothes.”

Sophia cocked an eyebrow. “Did you bring your wallet?”

Gabrielle closed her eyes and sighed. “Dammit, Soph.”

“Let me do my thing, Gabs.” She kissed her on the top of her head. “I’m more stubborn than you, so you’ll never win.”

When they had reached the checkout line, the basket of the cart was loaded with eggs, potatoes, fresh vegetables, supplements, fruit juice, potato chips, and popcorn, along with the clothes.

“I’m not going to be able to eat all this before it goes over,” Gabrielle said.

“I know. I’m staying with you for a while.” Sophia raised a hand before Gabrielle could complain. “I’m not going to force you to go out, except to the doctor’s appointment, but I will force you to watch silly movies with me. Think of it as an extended sleep-over.”

“The apartment’s a mess, though.”

“All it needs is a dust and vacuum. I’ll have that done in the first hour after we get back.”

While in the middle of watching a randomly chosen comedy, something they used to do every other month, Gabrielle paused the movie.

“What’s wrong, Gabs?”

She pointed at the urn on the coffee table. “She wanted me to spread her ashes in the forest, by that trail we used to hike. I—I don’t think I can bear to.”

“Why?”

“It’s all I have left of her.”

“She didn’t have much in the way of stuff,” Sophia said, “because she always said she didn’t care about stuff. I don’t think she ever worked any more than she had to in order to survive. She spent more time volunteering than getting paid.”

“I know. It just…it still hurts. She’d be ragging on this cheesy-ass movie.”

“She would. No one said it would be easy, but I’m here for you, Gabs; always.” Sophia pulled her close in an embrace.

“I’m lucky to have you. What about people who don’t have their own Soph?”

“What do you mean?”

Gabrielle’s eyes pooled with tears. “I mean, if I didn’t have you, I probably wouldn’t have made it. The insurance money is like a demon in my bank account, and I don’t want to spend it, because it feels wrong.”

“I know, Gabs. What if,” Sophia said, “we use it to set up a fund in her name to help with grief counseling?”

“You’d help me do that?”

“I’ll do anything in my power to help you heal.”

Gabrielle snuggled closer to Sophia, sniffled, and unpaused the movie.

Trunk Stories

Compliance

prompt: Set your story in a society where everyone is constantly aware of unwanted surveillance.

available at Reedsy

There were at least six cameras around the parking lot Grace could see without craning her neck. There were another nine she’d seen as she entered the lot. The counting wasn’t voluntary, it was more an annoying tic. She tried to relax in her car, waiting for the Compliance Office to open, but there was no comfortable position in her tiny commuter one-seater.

She looked at the ticket summons on her phone again. “Presence in a restricted zone.” Convenient, she thought, that they can mark an area restricted with no warning and collect fines.

A stout, matronly woman opened the doors of the office. She looked stuffed into the stiff-collared, square-shouldered Compliance Officer uniform.

After she’d propped the doors open, she put on her uniform cap, stuffing it down over her curly hair where it threatened to fly free any second. She looked at the time on her phone, and motioned for those in the parking lot to come in. Her uniform strained and bunched as she waved her arm.

Grace made her way into the drab waiting room with the others who had been waiting in the parking lot. Her phone chimed and her number in the queue showed: 14. Seeing how there were only six other people in the waiting room, she assumed that the numbers didn’t start at one.

The waiting room was silent. While cameras covered every public space and citizens’ moves were always monitored, the Compliance Office was certain to have visual and sound recording. The fear of saying something that might increase a fine or add a new violation kept everyone silent.

The woman in the overtaxed uniform sat at a desk near the front door and called out, “Number one!”

Grace was surprised to see one of the people in the room stand and approach the desk. She checked her phone again; the number was still 14, and there were now only five others in the room with her.

Every ten minutes, another number was called. Sprinkled between the ones who were called from the room, others entered the front door, their phone chimed with their number, and the woman at the desk called their number in the same moment.

Grace’s plan to save time by arriving before opening and being seen soon was, she found out, without merit. She had expected the waiting room to fill up, but there were never more than a few people there at a time. It was more than two hours before she was called.

She approached the desk and showed her phone. The woman motioned to the door behind her with a thumb. Grace said, “Thank you,” and went in.

Somehow, the long hallway through the door was even more bland than the waiting room. Doors were offset on each side of the hall, and young woman in civilian clothes with a badge on her hip waited for her at an open door.

“Grace Spahn? We’re in here.”

Once Grace was seated at the small table, the woman closed the door. “Grace, I’m Compliance Detective Alexandra McAlly, but you can just call me Lex.”

Grace nodded at the woman but remained silent.

Lex smiled. “Let’s start with the basics. Your name is Grace Spahn?”

“Yes.”

“Where do you live?”

“Sunrise apartments, 302 West Baker.”

“Right there on the corner of Third?” Lex asked.

“Yeah.”

“And where do you work?”

“I’m an underwriter at Starline Mutual.”

“Where is that?” Lex continued to make notes in her tablet as they talked.

“It’s in the Southerland Building, just past East H Street on Fourth.”

“And do you drive to work? Seems a pretty short trip.”

“No, I walk.”

“Do you walk up Third or Fourth or…?” Lex let the question hang.

“Fifth, to work. The same back, unless I need to stop at the market, then I take Seventh instead.”

“Why is that?”

“No sidewalks on Third or Fourth, and Sixth goes right past that biker bar and run-down hotel with all the drug dealers.”

“Yeah, the Braun district can get pretty seedy depending on where you are. But your apartment’s in a quiet area, right?”

Grace nodded.

“I’m not going to beat around the bush here. Your fine is steep. I know you don’t have a way to pay it off without taking out a loan, so I’d like to talk about alternatives with you; see what we can work out.”

“I was fined for walking home from work. The so-called restricted zone wasn’t restricted when I entered it.” Grace crossed her arms. “Don’t I have a right to an attorney?”

Lex leaned forward, her elbows on her knees. “Compliance violations aren’t crimes, and they aren’t handled by the courts. The only time they come up in court is as character background when determining sentencing.”

“If I haven’t committed a crime, then why am I facing a five-thousand—”

“Compliance violation, as I said.”

“If it isn’t laws you’re enforcing, what do Compliance Officers enforce with your constant surveillance and outrageous fines?”

“Community standards, decency, and safety. The surveillance doesn’t belong to us, but to the State. It’s shared with us, police, the Workplace Safety Administration, the courts, and so on.”

“And the Anti-Terrorism Task Force, right? The ones that disappear people.” Grace leaned back.

Lex scooted her chair closer to Grace. “You’re a smart woman, it’s obvious. You’ve got a good job, decent place to live, perfect credit record…you know how to keep your life in order. If you could help us out, this violation would be purged from your record.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“We’re trying to identify someone that was in the restricted zone at the same time you were. If you could walk me through your trip home, it could help…especially if you can remember the people you saw there.”

“You want me to try and describe everyone I saw in the fourteen-block walk home, last week? I’m afraid I won’t be much help.”

“Not everyone, no. Did you make any stops the night you were stopped?”

“Yeah, the corner market, over on Seventh and West Baker.”

“Was that before or after the stop?”

Grace knew that the detective knew well the answers to the questions she was asking. “Before. If you look at the summons, it describes the shopping bag I was carrying at the time.”

“Okay, well, did anything odd happen while you were in the market?”

Grace shrugged. “I got the notice on my phone that the area was restricted right after I got my groceries.”

“Groceries?”

“Well, junk food, anyway. Just some snacks for while I watched the latest streams of Star Voice. I didn’t know Compliance was policing our eating habits now.”

“Nothing like that,” Lex said, “I just want to be sure my report is precise. You understand; you write accident reports for insurance.”

“No, I determine who qualifies for what amount of insurance.”

“Thanks, I just learned a thing. I know you’re observant, I’ve watched you since you walked into the building. You probably know there are four cameras in here and seven in the waiting room.”

“Five and nine, unless you count the one in the foyer, then it’s ten.”

“Exactly. You always count the cameras?”

“I can’t help it, I just do.”

“It’s fine.” Lex flipped through her tablet. “We’re just hoping you can help us out with that observational skill of yours. How many cameras between your work and the market?”

“If I go straight down Seventh like usual it would be eighty-nine. If I take Fifth and then up the hill on Baker, it’s ninety-one.”

“Did you notice anything odd about any of those cameras that day?”

“No…I try not to look right at them…I just count them out of the corner of my eye. I wish I didn’t.”

“Fair enough.” Lex took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Now, I’m going to ask you again, Grace; other than the restriction notice, what odd thing happened while you were in the store?”

“There was a commotion in the front of the store when I was in the back. I didn’t think anything of it. The neighborhood’s not the best, and sometimes it gets noisy.”

“What about the man who caused the commotion?” Lex showed a still of the man in a mask looking directly at Grace. “Did he say anything to you?”

Grace knew who it was. Jeremiah was her neighbor. He was sweet but disturbed by the constant surveillance. He rarely left his apartment, and always returned in a state of near panic. She knew who it was behind the mask because he had one green eye and one brown eye.

“He said, ‘Sorry’ when he bumped into me on his way to the bathroom.”

Lex showed her another image, Jeremiah’s identification photo. “Do you know this man?”

“Yeah, he’s my neighbor, Jeremiah…can’t remember his last name. You already knew that, though.” She felt like the hammer was going to come down any second. “Why?”

“Is this who bumped into you in the market? It would be hard to hide from anyone he knows with those eyes.”

Grace’s eyes fixed on the door, and she felt the room shrinking.

“If you prefer, you can end this right now and pay the fine.”

“I can’t afford that, but….”

Lex lowered her voice, talking softly to Grace. “Look, I get it. Jeremiah’s your friend, and you don’t want to implicate him in anything. But you know, if you pay your fine and leave, and we find out later that it’s him, you’ll be charged as an accessory after the fact. We have his phone on West Carter and Third before it disappeared, then didn’t show up again until four hours later at his home.”

“Wha—what’s the charge?”

“The police don’t tell us, but if I had to guess, I would guess misdemeanor vandalism. The person in the mask was spray-painting cameras on Fifth and West Baker. If you know something you don’t tell us, though, they can bump it up to felony conspiracy for both of you.”

Lex stood up. “I’m going to give you a few minutes to make up your mind. I’ll come back with a loan form in case you decide to pay your fine today, but I’d rather make the police detective happy than the change counters in Compliance.”

Grace thought about it. She knew that Lex was probably lying that she didn’t know the charges. If she kept quiet, she would have to find a way to pay a fine of more than three months’ rent, and the loan rates would be brutal. She wasn’t sure how much the police and compliance knew. It might be a ploy to get them both on higher charges.

She crossed her arms on the table and buried her face in them so the cameras couldn’t see her cry. “I’m sorry, Jeremiah,” she whispered through the tears.

Lex came back in the room after Grace’s tears had mostly subsided and offered her a box of tissues.

Grace accepted one and wiped her tears and blew her nose. “Sorry.”

“No need to apologize.” Lex kept her voice soft, her cadence slow and soothing. “Have you decided to tell us who the man in the mask was?”

“You already know,” she said. “I saw those eyes, and knew right away, but I didn’t know why he’d be wearing a mask and running. I was afraid he’d done something terrible.”

“It’s really not as big of a deal as the police want to make it, from what I can tell,” Lex said. “But I need you to say it out loud. Who was the man in the mask?”

“It was Jer—Jeremiah…my neighbor.”

“Thank you, Grace. If I can get your thumbprint here, verifying that your answers are truthful and your fine and compliance violation has been purged.”

Grace held her hand out and let Lex get her thumbprint. She felt numb. Lex led her out the rear door of the Compliance Office, and she found herself standing in front of a sign pointing the way to the parking lot.

She had already taken the morning off work to deal with her summons, and now her head was too scrambled to go in. Grace texted work to say that she wouldn’t be in for the afternoon, either, and went home.

She pulled into her parking space as the last of a parade of police vehicles pulled out…including units marked “ATTF”, the Anti-terrorism Task Force. The world shifted beneath her, as she realized what she’d just condemned him to.

Trunk Stories

The Freeze

prompt: Write about a character who, for whatever reason, retreats to a remote cabin.

available at Reedsy

The only thing worse than a poor night’s sleep is the day after. When it happens every night, however, the days turn into a smear of half-remembered impressions as the world passes by at what feels like double or treble speed.

He answered the knocking at his door. “You here to wake me up? You’re a few hours late.”

“You’re dragging again.” There was a hint of pity in her voice.

“I’ll be fine,” he said.

“Just like you haven’t been all week?” She moved closer to where he couldn’t avoid her gaze. “You look like a raccoon, and I know you haven’t slept decently since—”

“Yeah,” he cut her off. “The sirens just….”

She handed him a key on a lanyard, and a sheet of paper. “You’re taking paid leave for a month.”

“Chief, I can—”

“Nope. I’m not taking any arguments. You’re going to my cabin, and you’re going to sleep as long as you need.”

“When did you get a cabin?”

“Been in the family three generations. Don’t worry, it’s got solar power now, a working well and pump and indoor plumbing.” She stopped. “You aren’t sleepwalking, are you?”

“No,” he said.

“Good. Wouldn’t want you to walk off the pier into the lake.”

“How will I get there?” he asked.

“I’m driving you up, so hurry up and pack.”

“You could just give me directions and I could—”

“You could try to drive there, fall asleep on the interstate and get yourself killed. Not happening.”

“I’ll be cut off from everything?”

“Not completely,” she said. “You can usually get enough of a signal from the pier to call or text. You won’t be doing anything online there, though.”

“I don’t suppose there’s any way I can argue, can I Chief?”

“Smart boy. Now pack up some clothes, and your toothbrush. Everything you’ll need is up there. Freezer, fridge, and cupboard are stocked, sheets and blankets are clean. While you’re up there, just call or text if you need anything else.”

Like the days previous, the morning trip to the cabin was a blur. He didn’t remember unpacking, but he remembered that it seemed too large to be a “cabin.” At some point he’d found himself in the bedroom and lay on the bed.

He woke to early evening sun streaming in the bedroom door from the large, western windows of the front room. His stomach grumbled and he moved to the kitchen to make himself a lunch…or dinner…a meal, anyway.

Deciding to keep it simple, he made a peanut-butter and jam sandwich. When he checked his phone for the time, he was surprised to see the battery was almost dead.

“What the hell?” he asked, as if the phone would answer. “I took you off the charger this morning.”

He found the charging cable in the bedroom and plugged the phone in. It took him a more than a few seconds to realize what he was seeing. He hadn’t just slept away the afternoon, he’d slept for twenty-eight hours.

Hunger still poked at him, but he didn’t feel up to making anything complicated. He checked the freezer and decided a pint of gourmet ice cream was just the ticket.

Carrying the pint of ice cream and a spoon, he went out the front door to the pier and sat down at the end of it. Birds sang in the growing shadows, the sun grew red and settled behind the trees, and he ate his ice cream.

He had a moment where he wondered if what he was feeling was contemplation or enjoyment or something else entirely. He shook his head and took another spoonful of the ice cream and let it melt on his tongue. It was better when he didn’t try to think about it.

A shadow in the sky resolved into a flock of geese flying north. As they neared the lake they began to honk and squawk. He finished his ice cream while they circled and began to settle on the lake.

They were every bit as loud as the city, but it didn’t grate on him the way passing cars and trucks and trains did. He felt tired, but not ready for sleep after only being up for a couple hours.

The sun set faster than he’d expected, and a dark, moonless night blanketed everything in silence. The geese slept where they floated in the middle of the lake.

A chill began to fall, driving him back indoors. There was nothing to occupy his time, save a shelf of paperbacks in poor condition. He wandered around the cabin a few times; bedroom, front room, kitchen, bath, laundry room, pantry, small room with a battery bank on one side, the other set up for fly tying, and back.

He pulled a book at random off the shelf and lay down on the bed to read. It was some sort of gunslinger, wild-west sort of novel that failed to hold his interest enough to keep him from drifting off to sleep.

The sirens! The sirens! He couldn’t move, mic in hand, frozen in place. The fire trucks are coming! Get out there! Move! No matter how he tried, he couldn’t make himself move. Not then, not this time. The sirens grew louder, it was going to happen again.

He sat up, panting, his heart thumping as if to leave his chest. Early morning sunlight washed the room in gold, while the geese honked and brayed and shouted their messages to each other on the lake.

That was the noise that his sleeping brain had turned into sirens. They continued throughout the day, a cacophony of excited travelers eating grass and bugs on the edges of the lake, swimming about, then taking short flights only to return to the water’s surface.

He tried reading more of the novel but couldn’t make it through a whole page without his mind wandering. He put the book back on the shelf and perused the collection. It was mostly westerns and historical fiction, with a scant few old science fiction pulps scattered here and there.

The rest of the day he spent much as he had the previous one; wandering about, watching the geese, eating when he felt hungry, and reading from the hilariously outdated science fiction novel he’d taken from the shelf.

When the geese went to sleep, he did too. The quiet made it easy, though his mantra of “Geese are not sirens” delayed it for a bit.

The mantra didn’t work. Once again, he was rooted to the spot while screaming sirens moved closer and everything slowed down. The camera fell to the ground with a crunch and the fire truck….

He took a cold shower to wash off the sweat and wake himself. He stepped out of the cabin as the geese took off and made a formation.

Despite hoping they were back on their journey, the formation did a few large loops in the sky before settling back down on the lake. He began to search the cabin, looking through cupboards and closets.

Not finding what he was looking for, he went to the kitchen and picked up the phone that was still plugged in. He carried it out to the pier, getting a weak signal when he reached the end.

“How are you holding up out there? Need anything?” Her voice dropped in and out.

“I…uh…I need a drink. Any chance you could bring me a bottle?”

“As long as you don’t mind me sleeping on the pull-out. I’m not going to let you drink alone.”

“Fair enough.”

“I’ll see you around five,” she said.

After first examining the fridge and scolding him for his eating habits, she made them dinner. They ate in silence while the geese continued their loud frolic.

Dinner complete and dishes washed and put away, they moved to the end of the pier to watch the sunset and share a bottle of wine.

“Not really what I had in mind,” he said, “but it’ll do.”

“It’ll have to,” she said, “as it’s all I had on hand.”

After the geese had settled and the waxing moon rose, she asked, “Can you talk about it?”

He took another gulp from the bottle. The wine warmed his belly and gave him the courage to speak. “I think so.”

For long moments, he stared at the moon, then its reflection on the lake. She didn’t push, giving him room to speak on his own time.

“The fire was behind me,” he said, “camera in front. Normal news reporting, you know? I heard the sirens….” Tears began to trickle down his cheeks.

“I heard them coming, then I saw…I saw her; the toddler…playing in a puddle in the street.

“I knew I had to do something, but I couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. I just…stared at her.

“The cameraman…the new guy…turned around to see what was going on. He dropped the camera and ran for her without a moment’s hesitation…just like I couldn’t.” He was wracked with deep sobs, and she put her arm around him and held him.

“If I’d just gone…I had time…I could’ve saved her. Instead…,” the vision of the fire truck trying to stop, slamming into both the little girl and the cameraman filled his mind again. “It’s my fault. I’m a coward.”

She held him in silence, rocking gently until his sobs died down. “It’s not your fault, okay? It’s not your fault. You’re not a coward just because your instinct was to freeze rather than run towards danger.”

“I—I don’t want to be alone tonight,” he said. “Is it okay if you sleep in the bed with me? Not to do anything, just sleep.”

The sirens! He was back again, frozen in place, but he wasn’t alone this time. Her voice cut through the sirens and broke him from their spell. “You’re okay,” she said, “it’s not your fault.”

He woke to her wiping the tears from his face, only to break down in sobs of relief.

Trunk Stories

Shelter

prompt: Write about a character who discovers something while raking leaves in their neighborhood.

available at Reedsy

Anya’s neighbor had been gone for a month. During that time, his brother, who lived in the next house over, had been keeping up the front yard. The HOA frowned on less-than-show-quality yards.

He was there now, raking the front lawn. Anya knew, from the vantage point of her own back yard, that the back yard needed some attention as well. She decided to do something about it.

“Hey, Carl!” She waved at the elderly man plying the rake.

“Anya, right?”

“Right. Hey, uh…do you know when they’re coming back?” she asked.

“Not rightly sure,” he said. “Bob just told me he and Ruth were going away. Nothing else.

“I was kind of surprised, seeing how poor her health was. But I guess she was well enough to travel anyway.”

“Oh, I thought you might know when he was coming home.”

“Nope. He’s impulsive by nature, you know. Especially since he retired and Ruth…. I’m just taking care of the yard to keep my little brother out of trouble,” he said.

“Well, the back needs it too. Does he have a rake I can use?” Anya asked.

“In that shed back there. But you ain’t gotta do anything. I’ll get to it eventually.”

“It’s a nice afternoon out, and I don’t have any other plans,” she said. “I’ll start on the back.”

“It’s nice now,” he said, pointing at the dark clouds piling the east, “but rain’s coming soon.”

The leaf-pile grew rapidly. She recalled her childhood, building huge piles of leaves to jump in, hide in, and burst from to surprise her much older brother. He always acted shocked despite her uncontrollable giggling, because he was a good brother.

She was lost in memories of her childhood when the rake scraped on something. She cleared it off, recognized the water-company’s logo, and knew that it was the cover over the master water shutoff valve, like the one behind her house. What she didn’t recognize was the second cover a foot away. The same size and type but missing the water company logo.

Anya thought it might be a sprinkler shutoff, but she didn’t recall any sprinklers ever running in Bob’s yard. Maybe it was left over from a past installation.

Carl and Bob’s houses were here before any of the others. When they were built, the rest of the housing development was still woods where the brothers hunted, gathered firewood, and, if Bob’s stories were to be believed, distilled moonshine as kids.

The brothers had grown up in the house Carl now occupied, while their uncle lived in the house she was now tending. When both houses came back on the market twenty years ago, the brothers jumped on them, even though they had to assent to the HOA and its rules.

She continued pulling leaves into small piles, then joining those piles to the large pile in the center of the yard. At least the grass didn’t need mowing. She’d asked about it when she first moved in. The grass from his yard had mostly taken over hers.

He’d told her it was a fescue blend that only required an annual mow in the spring and no water other than rain. While it was slow spreading, she’d allowed it to continue to take over her yard. Mowing once in the spring was far better than mowing every week during the summer and wasting thousands of gallons of water to keep it green.

Knowing how proud he’d seemed of his lawn knowledge, she was surprised to find a patch of astroturf under the leaves. She was examining it and determined that there was something hard and metallic beneath it. An early fall leaf, a maple, was stuck under the edge of the astroturf.

She was examining it when Carl approached. “Found the shelter, huh? Told him it was a waste of money, but he didn’t listen.”

“Red scare?” she asked.

“Hah! No, we only moved back twenty years ago.” Carl shook his head. “Bob said he’d always wanted a bomb shelter like the ones the rich folks had back in the day, so he built one.”

“Impulsive, you said?”

“Always…unless Ruth was watching him. She kept him in line, and he seemed to like it that way.”

Anya couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong with the door she knelt beside. “How come there’s no handle for this?”

“It opens with hydraulics. From the outside it runs on the pressure from the water main. Inside there’s some sort of pump or something that can be activated.”

Carl shook his head. “The only time he ever used it was right after it was done. He stocked it up with food, water, and dry goods, and then we sat down there watching the game and getting so drunk we had trouble climbing the stairs back out.”

“It looks like this was opened recently,” she said, pointing at the maple leaf still trapped in the door.

“If you want to see it, I can open it up for you.”

“I’d like that.”

Carl went to the second cover Anya had thought was for sprinklers and pulled the large key ring he carried on his belt off. He had a water shut-off wrench on it, and he knelt to open the cover. His hand went into the hole with the wrench, and he grunted with exertion.

“That should get it,” he said.

The door was built like a massive safe door. It raised from the surrounding ground a few inches before swinging open on hinges that hid below the ground with the bulk of the door. As it opened with a hiss, the smell hit her first. She swallowed hard, trying not to gag. “Stay—stay there, Carl. I’m going to check it out.”

Holding her shirt over her mouth and nose did nothing to dispel the stench, but she did it anyway. The inside of the shelter was lit, and a multi-disc CD player was playing classic rock on repeat.

At the foot of the stairs, she turned the corner and found them. They were curled together on the bed, Bob holding Ruth even in death.

“Aw, damn.”

Anya jumped, not expecting Carl to be there. “I told you to wait.”

“Which just made me hurry on over.” Carl looked at the couple and shook his head. “You idiot, Bob. I was here for you, all you had to do was talk.”

Anya saw a stack of papers on the small table where two wine glasses and an empty bottle sat. “What’s that?”

Carl looked at the papers. Tears poured down his face, unimpeded. He didn’t speak but handed them to Anya.

Ruth’s last prognosis which gave her two weeks, if that, instructions for a kerosene heater which warned about carbon monoxide, and an updated will.

There was no note, but none was needed. Bob decided he couldn’t live without Ruth, so he closed them in the shelter, waited for her to die, ran the heater, and held her close while he fell asleep for the last time.

While Anya wondered what to do, Carl had already called the authorities and they were on the way. Despite his grief, he was the one more together and functioning.

The rain had started. He led Anya out of the bunker and around to the front yard where the smell of death was displaced by the petrichor on the breeze. Something about the lively smell of wet earth seemed cruel given the circumstances; she began to cry.

She let the rain fall down her face, mixing with the tears. She turned to Carl and saw that he was doing the same. Not knowing what else to do, she embraced him. They stood like that, crying in a silent embrace, even when the sound of approaching sirens cut through the soft patter of the rain.

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

Lucky Night

prompt: Write about a plan that goes wrong, for the better.

available at Reedsy

Months of planning, investigation, and surveillance — much of it skirting on the thin edges of the law — were about to pay off. Miranda had him in her sights, and she was going to put him down for good.

That’s not to say she was planning to kill him but putting him behind bars was just as good. She’d followed the progress of the last shipment through customs and knew that it would be her best chance to catch him with the goods.

She knew the pattern by now. The shipment would clear customs, get loaded on a rental truck, be driven to a warehouse on the east side where it was unloaded, and the truck would be returned.

Later in the evening, a delivery van would leave the warehouse with the goods and be driven here, an abandoned factory in the crumbling industrial district north of the city. Once it made it to the factory, he would be alone in guarding it while the van drove away.

In the small hours of the morning, a crew would arrive and process and package the goods. By first light, the crew, the goods, and the man she was following would be gone. She hadn’t figured out how they got it out of the factory, since no other vehicles would arrive or leave, yet the entire vanload would be gone once they left.

Miranda checked her phone; the van had entered thirty minutes earlier, it should be leaving soon. As if on cue, the overhead door opened, and the van drove out. Only her target was left in there now.

She waited for the overhead door to close before moving in closer. The last time she’d been in the factory, she’d left one of the side windows unlatched. She may have played a little loose with the rules up to this point, but she was going to do this next part by the book.

She called dispatch on her phone. “Detective Leffler, badge KN379. Send backup to 11475 Umbra, building 9. Movement in abandoned factory, lights on main floor. I’m going in to make sure no one gets themselves injured.”

“One moment, Sergeant, putting the call on the radio now.”

“Holding.”

Miranda moved to the window and crouched below it, waiting for the permission she needed to go in.

“Detective Leffler, units on their way. Desk Sergeant wants you to wait at the gate for the units.”

“Is that a request or an order?” she asked.

“The exact words were, ‘Tell her to wait outside the gate and meet the units there.’”

“Sounds like an ask, not an order. Advise the units I’m going in.”

With that, she ended the call and checked the window. It was still unlatched. She opened the window and shimmied through to the dusty office. A shiver of adrenaline shot through her, and she took a deep breath to calm her nerves. With a slow and intentional hand, she unholstered her weapon.

She opened the office door, doing her best to keep the hinges from squeaking. Opened wide enough for her to pass through, she listened for any sounds of movement. The main floor of the factory, where the overhead door was, seemed to be the only source of sounds.

It sounded like he might be on a call. Either that, or he wasn’t alone. Either way, she was going to see this through. Backup should be arriving in less than ten minutes, enough time for her to make the collar or determine whether to hang back.

The cargo sat in a neat stack of boxes in the middle of the main floor. She’d been right, he was on the phone. He was still too far away for her to make out what he was saying, but his back was turned.

Miranda crept to the stack of boxes and climbed onto the lowest tier to get a better vantage. She pointed her pistol at him. “Police! Don’t mo—”

She was interrupted by a sharp blow on her shoulder, making her drop the weapon. She’d only turned partway around toward her attacker when she was struck in the chin, snapping her head to the side and knocking her out cold.

Miranda woke, feeling refreshed for the briefest moment…at least until the pain of the blow and the resulting headache rushed in. She reached for her head on instinct and found herself in the process of being locked up with her own cuffs. The partially crushed boxes beneath her were uncomfortable, as was the large man that sat on top of her binding her hands.

He stood and pulled her off the boxes. He was well over six feet tall, and, she guessed, around two-sixty if not more. Close-cropped blonde hair above brown eyes and sun-darkened skin the color of a burnt peach. He had the crooked nose and small, short scars of a long-time bare-knuckle brawler.

She’d thought initially that she’d been hit with a club or baton, but realized it was his calloused knuckles that had done the deed. She looked for her pistol but didn’t see it anywhere.

His large, work-hardened hands began pawing at her. It was almost an effective pat-down, but he only found her empty holster, badge clip, and wallet. He pulled her pistol out of the back of his waistband.

“Stay here and stay quiet, or you get dead,” he said. “Nod your head if you understand.”

Miranda nodded, her head thudding with movement.

“She’s a cop,” he said to the man she’d been after. He walked over to the other man and handed him the badge and wallet.

Since he hadn’t found her phone, she reached for the pocket where it should be. It was empty. The boxes she’d been laid out on…her phone was in there somewhere.

The other man motioned her over. “Come over here,” he said, “I don’t want to yell.”

She walked over, staying just out of reach. He was shorter than Miranda’s five-foot-seven. The man was thin, with olive-tinged skin, thick, salt-and-pepper hair, groomed eyebrows, and light brown eyes that divulged nothing of what was going on behind them.

“Detective Miranda Leffler…212 West Highland, apartment 19…or is it a condo?”

She looked at him without answering.

“Well, no matter. I know who you are, and I suppose you know who I am?”

When no response was forthcoming, he looked at the larger man. “How hard did you hit her? Did you scramble her brains?”

The larger man brandished her pistol again. “When Mr. Stevens asks, you answer. Got it?”

The smaller man let out an exasperated sigh. “Danny, how many times do I have to tell you…no names!”

“Sorry, boss.”

“Not that it matters.” He stepped into Miranda’s personal space. Her initial thought was that she could take him, even cuffed as she was. That thought was just as soon replaced with the knowledge that Danny would shoot her before she got started.

“Ask away,” she said. “You’re holding all the cards.”

“Better. I know you called for backup. They’re at the gate now, waiting for my orders.”

She tried and failed to hide her surprise. Of course, he would have police in his pocket. If she made it out of this, she’d see who was on duty the nights that the product moved through the factory.

“Don’t be surprised, dear. I’m a businessman, and as such, I pay for security, just like any other.” He opened one of the damaged boxes and pulled out a plush toy. “Amazing that something so simple can make so much money. Thirteen cents each, plus another three for the ear tags, and I can wholesale them at six bucks a pop. Of course, the markup from there to the toy store, to the consumer is highway robbery.”

“You know you can’t get away with it forever,” she said. “This spot and your warehouse where you keep the van are burned.”

“You might think so,” he said, “but I’m going to tell you what’s about to happen. You’re going to march out there and start shooting at your fellow officers. While they’re busy trying to talk you down, you’re going to shoot yourself in the head. Tragic, really.”

“I see,” she said. Her mind raced, trying to find a way out of it. “You’re going to kill a cop over some counterfeit toys? I guess life in prison sounds better to you than ten years.”

“It’s not just some counterfeit toys. These are the same toys and tags as the originals, from the same factory. There’s over a million dollars in these boxes…wholesale. Danny, make it happen. And when the crew gets here, get the orders handled and on the train; the car number’s on the dry-erase board by the door. I’ll be busy.”

Danny nodded and prodded Miranda with the pistol. “This way.” He led her to the back of the factory and out a formerly locked corridor which led outside. To her left she saw another overhead door that led to a broken loading platform by the train tracks where a freight train rested.

He closed the door behind them and put the pistol in his pocket. “Sorry I hit you so hard, but I needed to sell it. Don’t worry, nobody’s dying tonight. Special Agent Daniel Abrams, FBI.” He uncuffed her and gave her back her cuffs, holster, pistol and badge. Then he removed her phone from a pocket inside his light jacket and turned it to speaker. “Did you get all that?” he asked.

“We did,” the voice on the other end answered. “Takedown team is moving in now to arrest the officers on the scene.”

“Good deal. The crew shows up in forty minutes with the shipping labels. I’ll be going back in after I make the expected noise. Don’t know where Stevens is going, but I sent you the number to his new burner phone so you can track him that way.”

“What’s the go signal?”

“When I start cursing in Spanish. How long until the gate is clear?”

“Waiting for confirm—never mind, there it is. Gate is clear, the officers are in custody, and ours are ready to drive the vehicles out.”

“Let ’em know we’re going to make some noise, then I’ll carry Detective Leffler out for them to get her out of the line of fire. Have to make it look good for the camera.”

“Affirmative. State Patrol SWAT is there and waiting for you.”

Danny looked at Miranda. “Would you mind firing off three or four shots in quick succession, then a pause, then one more.”

Miranda unholstered her weapon and pointed it at a pile of gravel nearby. “This will be the first time I’ve fired a weapon in the line of duty.”

“At least it’s not a real life and death situation.”

She fired off the shots, surprised at how long the sound echoed through the rundown buildings around them. After she holstered her weapon, Danny told her to take her jacket off. “This is the hard part,” he said, “you need to play dead.”

He draped the jacket over her head and shoulders. “I’m going to haul you out there in a fireman’s carry, then drop you into a trunk for the camera out front. Whatever you do, don’t move.”

After what seemed like an interminable trip bouncing over his shoulder, she felt herself being set into a trunk and heard the lid closing over her. Without seeing who was there, she worried that it might be a setup between Danny and the cops. After all, she hadn’t seen a badge; then again, if was undercover he wouldn’t be carrying one.

She had removed the jacket and was still considering the options when the car came to a stop. The fact that he left her weapon in her holster made her feel a little better about her chances.

Before she could decide whether to draw it in the cramped space of the trunk, the lid popped up and an officer in a State Patrol SWAT uniform offered a hand to her. “Come on out, Leffler. Jace Mitchell. Pleased to meet you.”

Miranda accepted his help and climbed out of the trunk. Aside from two ambulances and their attendant EMTs, she and the SWAT officer were alone. “Jace, Miranda. Where’s the rest of the team?”

“Heading back to assist in the big arrest. FBI took the officers to Federal booking in the county lockup, along with the desk sergeant.”

“What about Stevens?”

Jace shrugged. “He’s being tracked, and his burner phone is being monitored. The longer he thinks everything is okay, the better. He’s only a small part of this.”

“A small part? He’s bringing in half a million counterfeit Adopt-a-Plush toys every month, and he’s a small part?!” Miranda’s head throbbed and her chin felt like it was swollen. “Tell that to my niece who was heartbroken when the Adopt-a-Plush her mother bought at the mall was a fake and she couldn’t get an adoption certificate online.”

“He’s a small part, in that he’s just one supplier of counterfeit goods to American Joy Distributors, LLC. Tonight, all their operations in eleven ports and fourteen cities are being closed down. The big fish, though, is whoever is handling the bulk sales to legitimate vendors and trafficking the shipping crew. Thirty-one people whose passports are being withheld while they get shipped around from job to job.

“Tonight, it’s toys; last night it was shoes and purses.” Jace caught her gaze. “I’ve been working with these FBI guys on this for two years. State Patrol thought we might have enough to go after one of your guys and try to flip him, but your sergeant just handed them all to us on a platter.”

Miranda deflated. “I just wanted to stop a counterfeiter.”

“In a way, you did…or you helped, anyway. If you hadn’t called it in, we wouldn’t have known for sure who in your department is in their pocket. It’s your lucky night. Stevens promoted Dan to be his righthand man last week after his previous lieutenant was picked up on unrelated charges. If we hadn’t already been in place to move in, or if anyone else in Stevens’ organization had been there, you’d probably be dead.”

“Yeah, lucky,” she said. She touched her chin, eliciting a wince.

“Have the EMTs check you out,” Jace said. “You got your noggin rocked, and Abrams looks like he packs a mean punch.”

“That he does, Jace…that he does.”

Trunk Stories

Let’s Have an Adventure

prompt: Make a train station an important part of your story.

available at Reedsy

Jackson wasn’t sure this was the right one, at first. He’d followed the directions, but this run-down station couldn’t be it. He looked to the crumbling ceiling and saw hints of a faded mural. The outlines of an eagle caught his eye. No, it’s a hawk, he reminded himself.

This was the station he was looking for. The same one where he’d waited impatiently as a young boy to meet his grandfather. His mother had taken time to explain the “eagle” he had excitedly pointed out was, in fact, a hawk. Although they could hear the trains from their farm, that had been his first visit to the station.

He remembered the first words his grandfather had spoken to him. “You look like an adventurous young man. Let’s have an adventure!”

The rest of the mural filled itself out in his mind’s eye. Mountains to the west and north, hills to the south, and over it all a blue sky with few clouds. Soaring in the sky was the hawk, hunting.

Compared to the landscape outside the station, the mural was far more interesting. The station sat at the edge of what once was a small farming town. Outside that lay flat fields of corn and wheat as far as the eye could see, dotted with grain silos, bisected by the poorly maintained, two-lane state highway that ran alongside the train tracks, from horizon to horizon.

When he’d been a small boy, though, the interstate went in. It didn’t pass any closer than sixty miles to the town. The farms and homes around the new interstate were torn down and paved over, turned into mini-malls, shopping centers, gas stations, motels, restaurants, and car dealerships.

The small city there grew around the service industries, and step by gradual step, the small farming town where Jackson had first met his grandfather died. The general store, one-room schoolhouse, gas station, diner, and the few houses in town were now boarded up, silent…decaying.

The freight trains still ran twice a day and picked up grain at the loading yard a mile away, however, there used to also be twelve passenger trains every day. At least until the interstate took the riders away.

Now the passenger train came once a day, and there was no one working at the station. A single kiosk, marked with scrawled graffiti stood next to the passenger platform, where one could buy a ticket to any other stop on the line — assuming the train was going their direction that day — without any human interaction.

The train came to a stop at the platform, and as the doors opened, Jackson caught the conductor’s announcement, mid-sentence. “…a ten-minute stop. Be sure to have your ticket in hand if you exit the train in order to re-board. Smoking areas are marked at the far ends of the platform. If you are not on board at the last call, you will have to wait two days for the next west-bound train.”

A dozen bedraggled riders filed off and went to the nearest smoking area, many lighting up before they got there. Jackson watched the train, waiting. He knew it was a stupid, but it was the eightieth anniversary of meeting his grandfather, and his own eighty-sixth birthday; possibly his last.

Grandfather had moved to the farm, helping his mother out after his father’s death. The hours and hard work took on a toll on him, though. In the six years he’d lived with them, Jackson had watched him age twenty. Grandfather went to bed one evening when Jackson was twelve and never woke up.

After that, his mother sold the farm to one of the big agri-businesses and moved them out west. He thought he could still see their twin grain silos in the distance, across the tracks. Jackson banished that thought. They might be in the same location, but those were likely replaced at some point in the intervening time.

Whenever he looked at the smoking passengers, he caught some of them watching him. I probably look like a doddering old fool out here, he thought.

He wondered how things would be different if he’d had children. He could have grandchildren, great-grandchildren, by now. Larry had children, he thought, and a wife. As soon as his children were grown, though, Larry had left his wife for Jackson, turning their affair from a very private one to a semi-public one. Larry’s children had disowned him then, not showing their faces again until his funeral.

They’d never married, even when the law was passed. Jackson had asked, but Larry didn’t want the trappings of marriage, when they were already listed as next-of-kin everywhere that mattered.

Jackson smiled as remembered the funeral. Larry would’ve loved it; white lilies, blue morning glories, a few true words from friends and made-up nonsense from family, but still more bittersweet than sorrowful. It was followed by a wake — minus the estranged family — with punk music, dancing, Larry’s favorite cheap beer, and laughter.

He wasn’t sure what he was looking for in this run-down station, but after the passengers boarded and the train left, he knew he wouldn’t find it. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to leave, at least not yet.

Back inside the station, Jackson sat on the least broken bench and looked at what was left of the mural. He closed his eyes, letting his boyhood memories fill it in for him again.

A freight train passed by outside, headed east from the loading station. The steady clack-clack of the wheels increased in tempo by small measures; the mile-long train slowly gaining speed. The sound soothed him, reminding him of his childhood on the farm.

A smile formed on his face as he lay on the bench and let the sound wash over him. For a moment, he was six again, excited almost as much to see the train as to meet his grandfather and enthralled with the mural overhead.

The colors grew bright and bold, the hawk seemed ready to swoop down at a moment’s notice, and the air around him filled with the sounds of a busy station. He felt a presence standing above him and sat up.

“Grandfather!” He was just as Jackson remembered him, except younger.

“It’s good to see you, Jackson, and the man you’ve become.”

“Jackie?” The voice caught him off-guard.

He turned to see Larry, a young man again, like when they’d first met and Larry had been living a lie. “Larry, I missed you.”

“We missed you too, you know,” his grandfather said, extending a hand. “Come on, it’s time.”

Jackson took his grandfather’s hand and stood, hugging his grandfather and then Larry. He and Larry held hands, interlacing their fingers.

Jackson turned back to look at the bench and saw himself there, grey and unmoving, a slight smile still evident on his face. He turned back to Larry and his grandfather and said, “Let’s have an adventure.”