Tag: drama

Trunk Stories

Family Is Forever

prompt: Write about someone who discovers the only family member they have left has just betrayed them….

There’s something not quite human in me. When I should be grieving a loss, I find myself oddly serene. In the moments when others panic, I’m met with a calm that makes it easy to weigh my options and choose a course of action.

I was warned, of course. The more implants I collected, the greater the impact on my humanity. After the corporate wars divvied up the planet between the victors it seemed I had little reason to care any longer. I knew my family was gone. By the time my little sister found me, and I found out she was still alive, it was too late. Still, for her sake, I had to try.

At least, that’s what I told myself. The truth of the matter is that I felt empty. There had to be some bit of my old self left, somewhere. And I had no one I could trust, save her.

“Nika,” I told her, “you should come stay with me in Seattle.”

“Why,” she asked, “don’t you come stay with me in Columbus?”

We argued whether the A-Zed Corp rule was better or worse than OxanCorp. I tried to play the big brother/little sister card; unsuccessfully of course. Finally, it was the proximity to the ocean, and the fact that I lived in an apartment rather than a shack, that won her over; either that or I’m just more stubborn than she is.

“Grey,” she asked over our first breakfast together since I left home at eighteen, “what were you doing in the war? Drafted by A-Zed?”

“Private data courier service,” I answered. “A-Zed felt it was safe enough to let me continue, as I was useful for moving messages and data to other Corps, both allied and not. I know you were too young to be involved.”

“Not even. When Oxan took Columbus, they recruited soldiers starting at age sixteen, and scouts starting at age twelve.” She pushed her eggs around the plate. “When QualCorp glassed the city and Mom and Dad—” She fell silent.

“If it’s too hard to talk about, you don’t have to,” I said. “I just want you to know I’m here for you, any time.”

“Are you, really?” she asked. “You don’t seem here at all. All that shit in your brain has you messed up. I just hope you’re still in there somewhere.”

“I am.”

Nika set her fork down and looked at me with a question in her eyes. “Friends may come and go; acquaintances show up never; work may ebb and flow…”

“…but family is forever,” I added. “So, this is the way things are, the only way things must…”

“…if family ever fails, there’s no one left to trust,” she finished. “Do you trust me?” She reached across the small table to take my hand in hers. If the jack ports on my wrist bothered her, she didn’t show it.

“I do,” I answered. “You’re the only person in the world I trust. You didn’t have to break out dad’s poem for that.”

“Thank you.” Her eyes grew misty. She rose and began picking up the plates. “I have to go find a job. Mooching off your ill-gotten gains is fun, but hardly sustainable.”

“Why would you assume that?” I asked.

“No one has those kinds of enhancements unless they’re a hacker.” She waved a dismissive hand. “I don’t want to know who you’re working for or anything, as long as you stay safe.”

“Always.”

“I’m off to find an honest job,” she said. “Wish me luck.”

“Good luck.” I felt I should say more, something positive and uplifting, but nothing came to me.

While she was out, it was time for me to earn some more of those “ill-gotten gains.” I made my money selling information; information that I stole from others. A-Zed looked the other way, as long as I and others like me weren’t stealing the info from them, and as long as they got a chance to bid on it, and a cut of whatever sold elsewhere.

Since I didn’t have a definitive target, I thought I’d do some snooping to see who might be able to offer a job to Nika. Perhaps I could find her something she’d excel at. I sent half a dozen listings to her, already resigned to the complaints she’d have when she got back to the apartment.

I happened across a nice little bit of information about one of A-Zed’s allied corporations: their capital position was severely compromised. After shopping it around for the highest bidder, I offered it to A-Zed. As usual, they offered a reasonable, but not quite as high bid. I was free to sell it to someone else and cut them in, but A-Zed was just as free to decide I couldn’t live in their territory any longer.

Fresh credits in my account, I took a walk through the city. My cybernetic eyes watched the city around me in colors I never saw when I was still totally human. The data that poured in via my enhancements floated in front of me in a virtual heads-up display. The skyscrapers stood proud above the damp, grey squalor beneath them. Shacks of wood and tin interspersed with tents showing their inhabitants in infrared formed the majority of the housing in the city. There used to be more land here, but as the sea rose, a quarter of the city fell into the sound.

I stopped at the corner mart on the way home to pick up some dinner. Most days I lived on sludge packs; all the nutrients I need without thinking about flavor or texture. It meant no cooking or washing dishes, too. I figured, however, Nika might like some actual food.

“Rice wine or beer?” I asked when she came in.

“Have anything stronger?”

“With dinner?”

“I thought I’d drink my dinner,” Nika said.

I served up instant dinners with beer. “How about we save that for after you get some food in you?”

She didn’t respond, but she did wolf down the microwave beef and broccoli after draining the beer.

“Didn’t go well today?”

“No.” She threw the container in the trash and began rummaging through the cupboards.

“Glasses are in the left top cupboard, whiskey’s in there too.”

She grabbed two large glasses and the whiskey and crossed the room to the seating area. “You joining me?”

I took the bottle from her and poured us both two fingers. As I sat in the broken-down chair in front of the tele-screen, she doubled her pour.

“I have the sense that I should be concerned,” I said, “but I’ll leave it to you to decide whether to tell me.”

She downed the drink and poured another. “It’s just been a rough day.”

“Did you check the listings I sent you?”

She shook her head. “I wanted to do it on my own, but I’ll check those tomorrow.”

I took my time with my drink. Not because I wanted to savor it, but because I didn’t feel like getting drunk.

“I missed you. I still miss you,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“It took me so long to find you again. I thought you might be dead.” She took a slug of whiskey. “By the time I found you, you were already…” she waved her hand at me.

“I thought you were dead,” I said. “After the nuke in Columbus, I mean.”

Nika downed her fourth or fifth and gave me a curious look. “You’re an asshole, did you know that?”

“I wasn’t aware of that, no.” I thought about what she might be referring to. “Is it about the listings?”

“No,” she said, “just in general.” She laughed and stopped short. Her eyes bored into mine. “God, you really are messed up, aren’t you?”

“Messed up how?”

“Forget it.” She poured another round for both of us and turned on the tele-screen. We watched the A-Zed news for a while before she called it a night and tucked herself into the spare cot.

I lay down in my cot and set myself to breathing evenly. Nika’s breathing became erratic, and she began to cry. Not knowing how to respond I pretended to be out and listened until she cried herself to sleep.

I heated up breakfast, ignoring the tear stains on her cheeks when she woke. “Shower’s free, breakfast in five.”

Nika nodded and carried a change of clothes into the small bathroom. The shower ran for the allotted three minutes of hot water, and she emerged shortly after in fresh clothes. The circles under her eyes betrayed her lack of sleep.

I pointed to her plate as I dug into my own breakfast. She sat and began eating. “You have any coffee?” she asked.

“Nope, don’t drink it,” I said. “I can pick some up this afternoon, though.”

“I need some this morning.” She finished her eggs and stood. “You’re coming with me today.”

“Why is that?”

“I need my big brother for moral support,” she said. “Plus, you need to show me where to get a good cup of coffee.”

We walked past the corner mart and she stopped me. “They have coffee here, don’t they?”

“I thought you wanted good coffee?”

“Have you had the coffee here?”

“No,” I said, “but it always smells burnt.”

She looked as though she was holding back tears. “Do you trust me?”

“I do.”

“Do you think I would ever do anything to hurt you?”

“Of course not,” I said. “What’s the matter?”

She pulled me into the little store and ordered a large coffee, and kept adding on to her order: cream, sugar, vanilla, a sprinkle of cocoa, whipped cream. When she ran out of things to add on, she talked to the cashier. Even before my enhancements I wasn’t one for small talk, but she seemed to have a gift for it. She glanced at the clock on the wall and looked surprised.

“I’m sorry, I’ve been rattling on,” she said. “I should let you get back to work.”

We walked out of the mart and I found myself being bundled into a van by two large men with weapons. “Run, Nika!” I yelled. There was no panic, just the calm observation that doing anything else contrary to their demands would result in a negative outcome.

The logo on the men’s holsters was that of OxanCorp. If they were caught kidnapping civilians in A-Zed territory it could turn nasty. “What’s this about?” I asked.

The men cuffed me to a rail in the van and shackled my feet together. If they thought I was dangerous, I might be able to work out an escape plan. They hadn’t grabbed Nika as they were focused solely on me. The front door opened, and I couldn’t see who else got in, but then we started moving toward the free zone.

“Huh, I only saw two of you,” I said. “Well played.”

“Grey, I’m sorry,” Nika said from the front seat, “but it’s for your own good.”

“Nika?” The calm broke; the formerly placid surface of my mind rippled as all my constructs of reality crumbled. “Why?”

“We’re taking you to an Oxan clinic in Reno,” she said. “They’ll pull all that shit out of your head and get you healed up again. I want my brother back.”

I felt fear for the first time in years. With it came a pain I couldn’t name or point to. My sister, my last hope for feeling human again, had sold me out. Tears burned as they ran down my cheeks. “I trusted you! You can’t do this to me. It will kill me!” The panic in my voice surprised me. “The nano-structures are well into my brain stem by this point.”

“No!” Nika’s voice was sharp. “They’ve got the best nano-surgeons and tools. I signed a life contract with them to pay for it.”

“And if I refuse?”

“I’m sorry, Grey, that’s not an option.” Nika’s voice broke. “As soon as I saw how far gone you were, I got a power of attorney from an Oxan judge. You’re not of fit mind to maintain your own health. Until you are, I’m making the decisions.”

“That’s what you were doing yesterday. Did you ever love me,” I asked, “or just the idea of a big brother?”

“I did and I do, but you’re too messed up to see it now.” Nika grabbed the rearview mirror and adjusted so she could see me. Her tears flowed without hesitation. “A-Zed’s been using you. You’re not a free agent or consultant or whatever. If you were, you’d be living in the free zone, instead of an apartment owned by them.”

“I thought you didn’t know or care to know who I worked for?”

“I can put two and two together,” she said. “You live in a corporate apartment, you work for the corporation, even if they let you think you don’t.”

I looked away from her, no longer able to see my sister in the reflection. I pulled my legs in under me and curled up into a ball. “There’s no one left to trust.”

Trunk Stories

Stubborn

prompt: : Set your story in a remote winter cabin with no electricity, internet, or phone service….

available at Reedsy

What good is it being stubborn if you don’t keep trying? Alik stared at the cabin in the center of the clearing, her snowshoe tracks trailing back three miles through the sparse alpine forest to the road. She knew how this would probably end, but she had to try. She checked the device on her wrist, and watched it count down the seconds before she began moving again.

The sky was darkening with clouds as she crossed to the cabin. It always seemed larger from the outside. The deep covered porch welcomed her, and she removed the snowshoes and let herself into the mud room. It wasn’t much warmer than outside, but it was dry. She shucked her boots and gloves and parka, putting them neatly in the spaces provided.

“It looks like you forgot something.”

Alik jumped. “Gods, Neery, I didn’t hear you come out.” She turned to give the smaller woman a hug. “What do you mean I forgot something?”

“Mail? I don’t see any.” Neery searched through the hanging parka and made exaggerated searching movements around the mud room. “Nope, no mail here. I fully expect you’ll forget to bring something you need for your own funeral.”

“I didn’t forget it.” Alik’s mouth grew tight. “I— can’t bring it anymore.”

“What does that mean?”

“They shut down your box. Something about being four months behind on your box rent. You’ll have to go in personally to pick up any mail, but I paid your overdue bill.”

“Assholes. World’s full of them.” Neery hugged Alik again. “Now you know why I live here. Come inside and get warm and dry, dinner’s on the stove.”

“What’s dinner?” Alik asked

“It’s that meal that comes in the evening.”

“See, I think you’re the asshole.” Alik stuck her tongue out. “You know I meant, ‘What, dear sister, have you prepared for our dinner?’”

“Mystery soup.” Neery winked. “I’m running low on spuds, otherwise it would be mystery stew.”

Inside, the cabin was lit by oil lamps. A wood stove provided heat and a cooking surface. A meticulous stack of firewood stood near the rear door, while glassware lined the open-front cupboards like soldiers on parade. Everything in the cabin was placed just so, making straight lines and right angles, nothing out of place.

They ate in silence, Neery casting curious glances at Alik. When they had finished, Alik collected the bowls and spoons and washed them in the basin to one side of the cabin, full of cold soapy water.

“Alik, what are you doing here?”

“I would say that I’m just here to see my sister,” Alik said, “but that would be a lie.”

“No shit.” Neery took the bowl Alik was drying. “What happened?”

“I want you to come stay with me.” Alik raised a hand to stop Neery’s response. “You don’t want to, I know. But I miss you, and I worry about you.”

“Gods you’re stubborn. You don’t stop, do you? I won’t ever go back. Especially while—”

“Mom died,” Alik said. “Last month. I sent you a letter, but you haven’t picked up your mail in six months.”

“Shit.”

“Exactly.” Alik took the bowl back from Neery and placed it in the stack in the open cupboard. She took the time to ensure the rims of the bowls were exactly one finger-width back from the edge of the shelf and perfectly centered, the way Neery liked.

“I feel like I should be happy finally, or relieved.” Neery sat heavily in the chair nearest the stove. “Truth is, though, I don’t really feel anything.”

“Will you at least consider staying with me over the winter?”

“Considered it, don’t want to.”

“Neery, I mean it. Take some time to think it over.” Alik sank into the overstuffed sofa. “Mom’s gone. You’re all I have left in the world.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be my support?” Neery asked. “You’re the big sister here.”

“Nee-nee—”

“Okay, I’ll consider it. Sheesh, you’d think I ran away from you.”

“You kind of did,” Alik said, “but I understand why you had to leave. I still don’t understand why you had to go to the ends of the Earth to do it, but you had to leave; I get that.”

“While you’re getting things, there’s a bottle and shot glasses in the cupboard nearest the wall,” Neery hinted.

Alik brought the bottle and glasses and set them on the low table. “I know you thought about getting a dog,” she said. “I’ve got enough space for one and a fenced yard.”

“What’s stopping you from getting one?”

“There’s no one to watch it while I’m traveling for work.”

Neery laughed and poured shots. “That’s why you want me to come back; to be a dog-sitter.”

“That’s not true,” Alik said, “but if you wanted to get one, you could.”

“This is just like the time you convinced me to buy the Molly doll with my birthday money instead of the roller-skates I wanted.” They drank their shots.

“How so?”

“You said it would be fun to have the matched set with your Millie doll and we’d have tea parties every afternoon.” Neery poured another round. “Instead, you played with it almost all the time and I’d have to beg to even see the doll.”

“I was six, give me a break.” Alik swallowed the second shot, feeling its warmth spread through her. “If you really want skates, I’ll get you some high-end roller-blades.”

“You’re such a bitch,” Neery said.

“And that’s why you love me.”

“Cheers to that.”

They drank in relative silence, Neery adding the occasional log to the fire, for what seemed like hours.

“I’ve had enough. I need to sleep,” Neery said. “Same as usual, I sleep near the wall.”

Alik nodded and waited until Neery had climbed to the sleeping loft before clearing up the bottle and glasses. They’d gone through half of it. That was probably too much, but at least she’s calm. She checked the device, saw the time, and smiled.

When Alik lay down her sister was already snoring. She had no sooner gotten settled than Neery snuggled up close to her. Sleep overtook her in minutes.

Alik was awakened by the sound of metallic scraping. Faint morning light showed in the windows, the bed was empty next to her, and the unmistakable aroma of coffee enticed her out of the warm blankets. Climbing down from the loft, she saw Neery scooping ash out of the wood stove into a pail.

“Morning.”

“About time you woke up,” Neery said. “Thought the coffee would do it, but since it didn’t, I figured I’d just get on with my day.”

“Don’t change your routine for me,” Alik said. “If I’m in your way just say so.”

Neery held the pail and fireplace shovel out to her. “Could you put these in the mud room? And bring in the small dust brush and dustpan on your way back in?”

Alik took the tools and walked out to the mud room. The door clicked behind her and she turned, expecting Neery to be there but she was alone. She set the bucket down on the stone paver it had been sitting on when she arrived.

She began to look for the dustpan, knowing that Neery would put it away in such a manner that it would be plainly visible. It wasn’t in the mud room. She tried to step back inside but the door was locked.

“Neery! Don’t do this!” she cried. “We can work it out! I’m here for—”

The shot rang out and echoed in the cabin, scaring the ravens out of the surrounding trees. Alik kicked at the door until it opened. Her sister lay still in a growing puddle of blood in the middle of the otherwise spotless room, the revolver still in her hand.

Alik closed the door and donned her parka, gloves, and boots. She stepped out of the mud room and put on her snowshoes. It took only a few minutes to reach her tracks at the edge of the clearing. Positioning her snowshoes into the earlier tracks she took a deep breath and pressed a button on the side of the device.

Alik spoke into the device. “Neery died at 8:04 am; she shot herself. Beginning attempt eighteen.” She touched a control on the device and found herself in the same position, again, on the previous day. What good is it being stubborn if you don’t keep trying?

Trunk Stories

Take What You Can Get

prompt: Write about a character who is incapable of telling even the smallest lie or half-truth….

available at Reedsy

Jenn stood in the hall, the smell of disinfectant sharp in her nose, the constant beeps and sounds of the hospital distracting. After being told for days to wait, the doctor had finally cleared her husband for a visit. This was to be the first time in months she would see him awake after the accident.

The nurse stopped her, his hand on her shoulder. “I should warn you; he may not seem the same as you remember him. Doctor Vishal says that after an injury like that, he may be someone else, someone new. Every experience shapes our personality, especially traumatic ones.”

Jenn nodded. “Yes, he made that clear to me. He said Carl was emotionally stunted and a bit . . . blunt right now. I can handle it.” She entered the room.

Carl raised his head and laid back down with an, “Oh, it’s you.”

“Are you not happy to see me?” she asked. “I can leave and come back later if you’re not up to it.”

“I like that you’re here,” Carl said, “but I knew you’d be coming anyway. I’m curious to see who else will turn up though.”

“Do you know how long you were out?”

“The doctor told me, but I can’t remember.” He shrugged and scratched at his head. “I guess it just wasn’t important enough to remember.”

“You were out for three months,” she said. “Everyone’s come and gone, and most won’t be able to come back for at least another week or two.”

“Makes sense. I’d probably wait a while to see if I’m really okay before I visit.” He struggled to sit up. “It’s not uncommon for patients to seem to be doing better right before they die. Why visit the hospital when you can wait for the funeral to make an appearance?”

“Why would you say that?” Jenn helped him sit up. “You’re going to do some physical therapy and walk out of here in no time.”

“That’s far outside the realm of probability,” he said. “I’ll most likely leave in a wheelchair and it’ll take a few months before I can do much walking, if ever.”

Jenn took his hand in hers. “I refuse to believe that. You’re a fighter, you’ve always fought through.”

“I’ve always faked it,” he said. “I can’t anymore. The facts are there and I’m not in a position to dispute them.”

“So what, you’re not even going to try to get better?”

“Of course I will. Whatever the science says. If it’s likely to be beneficial to my physical recovery, yes.” He pursed his lips. “If it’s just to make me feel better emotionally or mentally then no. It’s a waste of my time and energy, both of which are limited.”

“How can you say that?”

“The truth is the truth. Whatever you might feel doesn’t change that.”

“And what about your feelings?”

“I have none. I don’t think I’ve had any real emotions since I woke up. Curiosity, sure. Happy, sad, up, down, love, hate, any of that? None.”

“I love you, Carl.”

“I know,” he said. He pursed his lips.

“What are you thinking?”

“I’d rather not tell you,” he said. “I may not feel anything, but I don’t want to hurt your feelings.”

“Please,” she said, her eyes brimming with tears. “Just tell me.”

“You should divorce me. I know what it takes to make you happy, but I’m no longer capable of that.”

Tears drew tracks down her face. “You don’t know that it’ll be like that forever,” she said. “You might recover.”

“From what the doctor said, the chances of that are slim. Even if it happens it could take years. During that time, you should find someone that makes you happy.”

“If you don’t have any feelings then why do you care whether I’m happy?”

He laid back down. “It seems like the fair thing. I’m pretty sure I loved you, and you made me happy. I remember that. I also remember the times you annoyed me, pissed me off, or just got on my nerves, and how often I did the same to you.

“But on the whole, I think you made me more happy than unhappy. I don’t think it’s fair of me to expect you to stay miserable and stick around hoping for a miracle.”

Jenn kissed his forehead. “You may not be able to feel right now, but you don’t get to decide my life for me. I’ll stay with you for as long as it takes.”

“That’s your decision. It will make it easier to get to and from therapy to have a built-in ride. In all fairness, though, you should know that I still require assistance to get on and off the toilet, or into the shower chair. The therapist says with some work I should be able to do all that myself in six to eight weeks.”

“Yeah,” she patted his hand, “you will, and more.”

“I probably won’t be able to hold a job,” he said. “I’m too abnormal at this point. The nurses talk, and not always quietly enough. Some of them are uncomfortable around me. That wouldn’t translate well to the work world.”

“What about me?” Jenn asked. “How am I feeling right now?”

He studied her face. “I don’t know. I can’t tell. I see tears, but I don’t know if they’re sad or happy or pain tears. Your face is just . . . you. I’m damaged goods. Before you get any older you should leave me and find someone else; take what you can get out of this life.”

“You have no idea how much I missed you, and in how many ways.”

“Physically too, I would guess?” Carl asked. “If you stick around until the next nurse’s shift, she helps me shower. I overheard her talking about picking up couples. Something about no worries about commitment. I would find pleasure in sex with her and you at the same time.”

“You . . . have no filter, do you?”

“Maybe? I wasn’t going to tell you to divorce me until you asked.” He sighed. “There’s no time for playing coy, I may still drop dead from an aneurysm tonight. The doctor said that was a risk.”

“Carl, I want you to do something for me.” Jenn leaned in close and looked into his eyes, her hands holding his face in a soft embrace. “Tell me everything’s going to be okay.”

“I can’t. There’s no way I could know that.”

“Just lie to me,” she said, “and tell me it’s going to be okay.”

“Why?”

“Please.” Tears once again ran down her cheeks. “Say the words, ‘Everything will be okay.’ Can you do that for me?”

“Everything,” he began, then faltered.

“Try again, baby, try again. ‘Everything will be okay.’ Say the words.”

“Everything will be what it is. Weird, I can’t say it.”

“Can’t, or won’t?”

“Can’t. Hold something up.”

Jenn held up a cup.

“That’s a cup.” His eyebrows knotted. “I wanted to call it a dolphin, but I couldn’t. I knew the words I wanted to say in my head, but that’s not what came out.”

She held up a pen. “Let’s try smaller. Tell me this is a pencil.”

“That’s not a pencil. Wait . . . that’s a pen. I mean, it’s a pen.” Carl pursed his lips. “That’s odd. I need to tell Doctor Vishal about this.”

“So, you can’t lie even to make me feel better?”

“While it would come in handy, it seems that I’m unable to do so.”

“What do you think of my hair?”

“Makes you look older. Your old style was better.”

“Ashley thought it was cute. You remember her: the neighbor you hated?”

“I didn’t hate her. She’s hot and I didn’t want to be tempted like that to cheat on you. It was easier to pretend we didn’t get along than to be left alone with her. She kept hitting on me whenever you weren’t there.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Didn’t want to bruise your ego.” Carl shrugged. “We both know she’s hotter than you, but I wasn’t with you just for your looks. Bringing that up would have triggered your insecurities and I didn’t want to deal with that, so I took the easy way.”

“And what about bruising my ego now?” she asked. “Did you think about how I would feel when you told me that Ashley is hotter than me?”

“No,” he said, “I didn’t. I apologize for my oversight.”

“So, did you ever cheat on me with Ashley?”

“No. Not with anyone. I didn’t cheat with your cousin either, even though she offered, and I was tempted. I thought about it and fantasized about it some, but never acted on it.”

“My cousin is gorgeous. I guess that helps my ego some.”

“I’m getting tired. Maybe you should go now and come back when I’m more rested.”

Jenn leaned down and gave him a soft kiss. “I’ll do that.”

“Oh, you should call James. You like hanging out with him. I know you still love him and maybe you’ll realize he can make you happy and you’ll divorce me for him.”

Jenn’s eyebrows shot up. “You what?”

“Huh, I meant to stop at you like hanging out with him.”

“At least I’ll always know your motives.”

“I could only fool you sometimes before, anyway.” Carl slammed his fist down on his thigh. “Ugh! I wanted to say, ‘I could never fool you, anyway,’ but that’s not what came out.”

“I love you,” she said.

“I find your company a welcome distraction,” he replied, “but tell your brother and his wife I’d rather not be bothered with theirs.”

Jenn smiled. “I’ll take what I can get.”

Trunk Stories

As a Family

prompt: Write about a character discovering something new about their past that changes how they remember an important moment….
available at Reedsy

The attempted assassination of Prime Minister Haidara on my seventh birthday, a bright Thursday morning, stunned the Federation and brought the city to a grinding halt. School was disrupted by the news, and the instructor left the holo on all day as we waited to see if she would survive. By the end of the school day it was obvious she would, and we went home.

Throughout the block adults were crying, wandering around in shock, or silently drinking with nothing more than a sad nod between them. As children, we understood that it was an important event, but we didn’t fully understand it. I returned to an empty flat to do my school work and wait for my mother to return. Except, that day I had no school work to do, and she never came home.

On a normal day, I’d do my school work until my mother returned from her shift as a firefighter. She’d make a light dinner and then argue with the holo. I never understood it. They weren’t listening; it was a show, not a call. She’d get agitated and keep arguing until I turned off the holo. She’d say “thank you, sweetie” and kiss me goodnight. This wasn’t a normal day.

A police officer woke me in the middle of the night. She said my mother had an accident and wasn’t coming home; she was dead. I was angry. “How come the Prime Minister gets to be okay but not my mother? You’re police, help her! Why didn’t you help her? She wasn’t here for my birthday!”

Instead of answering the rage and fear of a child, she held me as I wept, and she wept with me. She smelled like flowers and held me until I cried myself to sleep. She carried me, asleep, to the main police station on the zeroth floor and held me through the night.

The next day I went into foster care, with Ms Elma, an older woman who had a two-room flat on the 50^th floor of the block. It was like the one I’d lived in with my mother, but covered in kitschy nicknacks and floral prints, with an obscene amount of potpourri in little jars on every surface. It was like suffocating under a fluffy blanket.

When she first came to visit, I didn’t recognize her. A tall, ebon-skinned woman with deep brown eyes, a halo of black curls, and sharp cheekbones, standing outside the flat. “Is it okay if I visit with you, Markus?” Her accent was lilting, like some of the instructors, especially the ones that taught Bambara and French.

I nodded and she came in, her lavender dress floating with every step. She greeted the old lady then sat on the floor in front of me. When she got close I smelled the flowers. I fell into her lap and let her rock me.

“Do you remember my name?”

I shook my head. Everything from the past the few days was a blur, except that the Prime Minister lived, and my mother died.

“My name is Violet Samassa. I wanted to see how you’re doing.”

“I want to go home.”

“I know, little one.” She smoothed my tousled blonde curls and I wondered at how pale I was against her rich skin. “You’ll be here for a little while, until we can find a forever home for you.”

I whispered in her ear, “I don’t like it here. Can I go with you?”

She hugged me close. “I have a son. He’s your age exactly. You were both born on the same day. Tomorrow, I’ll bring him and we’ll go for ice cream. How does that sound?”

I nodded, afraid that if I said anything more she would leave. Instead, I clung on, hoping for the moment to last. It didn’t.

“I need to get to work,” she said. “I’m on the night shift now, but I’ll see you tomorrow after school, yes?”

“I don’t want to go back to school.”

“Oh but you must,” she said. She leaned close and whispered, “it will get you out of here for a few hours.”

When I returned to the classroom the next day, the other students avoided me. They looked away when I turned toward them. I’d become invisible. Only one student paid any attention to me. I didn’t know him, but I recognized him from the class. He came over without saying a word and gave me a hug. It was all I could do not to cry.

“I’m sad your mom died,” he said.

“Me too,” was all I could get out.

After that, he sat with me for the whole class and did his best to cheer me up. I think he got me to laugh a little when he made fart noises behind the instructor’s back. After a day that passed mostly in a fog, we walked to the lifts together and rode up. As I got off on the 50^th floor he said, “See you tomorrow.”

When Violet showed up at the flat an hour later, she introduced her son, who laughed and made the fart noise again. He hugged me, and she looked at him with eyes wide. “You didn’t tell me you knew Markus.”

“I didn’t know his name,” he said, “but we’re friends now. Right?”

“Right,” I answered.

“Well, Markus, this is my son, Ash.” She rubbed the close-cropped black curls on his head. “Did you know you both have the same birthday?”

“Twins!” Ash put his arm around me. “Come on, twin, let’s get ice cream!”

Ms Elma didn’t look away from the holo the entire time this was going on. It was just as well, as the few times she’d tried talking to me were annoying and awkward. After ice cream, I ended up spending the night with them. And begged her to let me stay.

A month later, Violet and Ash surprised me with a late birthday party at their flat. My present was the adoption papers she’d started. While it wouldn’t be complete for a while, Ms Elma was fine with me moving into their place right away. I stopped calling myself Markus Plesh and started calling myself Markus Samassa.

Within a year Violet became “mom,” both officially and in my heart and mind, while Ash and I became twins for anyone who asked. I still missed my biological mother, but I remembered her less well as the time passed. The more my new mom tried to find out about my mother’s death, the more walls she ran into. My mother was one of eight people from Block 17 whose death on that date was sealed under injunction from the Defense Force Intelligence service.

Although she wouldn’t talk about it, it became apparent to Ash and me that mom had some demon related to that day. Our birthdays were often frantic affairs, full with as many activities as possible. We thought at one time she was doing it to help make the day joyful, rather than a day of mourning. As we grew older though, we noticed the haunted look in her eyes.

At eighteen I tried finding out what could about my biological mother’s death. I figured it had something to do with her work as a fire fighter. Why would the Defense Force hide the “non-work-related accident” of a member? Still, all the records were sealed, even for next-of-kin. I put a notice in public records to ping my comms whenever any information about her death became public and set it aside.

Ash and I chose police for our mandatory service. Mom talked to us before we left. “I’m not going to say this more than once. If you need to pull your weapon to protect someone else, don’t hesitate. If it’s to protect yourself, you need to make that decision then.” The haunted look returned. “I don’t think I could live with myself if I hadn’t been protecting others. I just hope neither of you have to do such a thing.” That was the only time we’d heard she had ever had to fire her weapon.

With that bit of information I checked the public police records around the assassination attempt. Mom was on duty that day, in the protection detail as the Prime Minister toured the outside of Blocks 17 and 19. She was one of four officers who fired back. She was off the following day, then moved to night shift, at her request.

When we finished our mandatory service, Ash and I followed in mom’s footsteps, staying on with the police. Ash moved around every few years, while I just stuck with the place I was first assigned out of mandies, Erinle, the second planet in the Dem system.

“Where were you when the Prime Minister was shot?” Major Karter was leaning back in her chair. She always seemed to be on the verge of tipping over — but never did that I saw.

“What brought that up?”

“Just realized it’s almost 25 years ago, now, but it’s the first big thing I remember as a kid,” she said. “Makes me feel old. I was in third grade then, skipping classes and hanging around the block when all the holos started showing it. You?”

“First grade classroom, Block 17, Bamako,” I answered. “But that’s also my birthday, and the day my mother died.”

“Your mother’s a police officer on Sol 3,” she said, letting her long, silky blue hair dangle to the floor behind her. She picked a pretzel out of the bowl on her desk and threw it at me.

“My biological mother died. Commodore Samassa is my adopted mom.” I walked over and looked down in her eyes, the same blue as her hair, in a pale face dotted with freckles. “Don’t forget, I’m going back to Earth for Ash’s and my birthday this evening. I’ll be back in two weeks.”

She sat up in a flash, nearly bumping my head, the front of the chair slamming down on the floor. “That’s today?”

“No, four days from now,” I said. “The commercial liner from here to the Sol 3 gate is over sixty hours.”

“Right, I knew that,” she said, fishing out another pretzel, “I was talking about the leaving part. Thought you were leaving tomorrow. Your brother going to be there too?”

“Every year. He’s got it easier, though,” I said. “He’s stationed on Luna now, so it’s a short hop for him.”

“So how did you end up out here?”

“Luck of the draw straight out of mandies, then the place kind of grew on me.”

“It does that,” she said. “You know, they say that the forests around here are what Earth used to look like a long time ago.”

“Maybe,” I said, “but it’s the ocean that I love. The clean, salt air when I’m outside the block, the gulls — just pulls me.”

“You’re weird. You could get the same lots of places on Earth – like Maude, Antarctica. Hey,” she raised her comm, “do me a favor and get some good coffee while you’re there? A couple kilos of the Ethiopian beans.” She flicked her comm, sending authorization for purchase on her behalf to my comm.

“Sure thing, Major.”

“Sorry I didn’t get your present yet, It’ll be at your desk when you get back. And don’t argue with your mother when she starts talking about a promotion.” She smiled. “Mother knows best, right, Master Sergeant?”

“I just got this.” I pointed to the rank on my collar tab. “You trying to get rid of me to battalion?”

“Not trying to get rid of you. They’re moving me to battalion next month. I’m trying to get you there so that when I go I’ll have at least one person I can put up with.” She laughed.

“Right, but I doubt it.” As I gathered my things to leave she was leaning back in her chair again. “And don’t fall and bust your ass, sir. I need to know I’m coming back to a commander without a stick up their butt.”

“Don’t doubt my word, Markus! Or my balance!” She threw another pretzel at me and I dodged it and slipped out the door.

The trip was a long stretch of boredom bookended with frantic changeovers. Train to shuttle to station to liner; sixty long, slow hours of super-C; then liner to station to shuttle to train and, finally, to Block 17.

Accustomed to making the long trip annually, I used the sixty hours of boredom to shift my sleep schedule over to match Federation standard time. When I arrived at the block I was wide awake and ready for the day. Mom had taken time off from her new command role, so we spent lunch reminiscing.

Ash showed up in time for dinner, and handed me a small, wrapped present. I handed him his, also wrapped, and we agreed to hold off on opening them until morning. I was sure mine was my favorite — habanero sauce from a little farm on Sol 2. I was equally sure he knew that his was his favorite — hard candies flavored with licorice root and pine bark. It was bitter, sour, sweet, and rich; all at the same time. Mom usually shipped presents to us, to arrive when we returned from our annual vacation.

“I don’t understand you boys,” she said, as we sat around the table. “You both have degrees, you could be officers, but you’re both NCOs. Why?”

“I like the work as an NCO better,” I said. “I see how much time the Major spends with reports, and budgets, and requisitions, and — no, I’d rather just keep solving crimes.”

“I’m with Markus on this one.” Ash slapped my shoulder. He’d grown half a head taller than I, with mom’s complexion, but his hair was beginning to thin at the temples and crown. “Besides, officers have all those functions they’re expected to attend.”

I looked at him and raised an eyebrow. “You’re an E-7, Senior Sergeant now. When your next promotion comes and you’re an E-8 like me you’ll be eating those words.”

Ash made an exaggerated expression of shock. “You what?”

“You’ll be expected to go to all those functions too,” I said. “Boring conversation, decent food.”

Mom got the look. The one that said we’d just annoyed her a little too much. “If it’s that way, no surprise this year. We’re getting up early tomorrow to go to the Capitol building.”

“Is that meant to be a punishment?” Ash asked.

“We should swing by the museum,” I said. “We haven’t been in ages.”

“We’re not going sight-seeing.” She picked up her comm and sent us both a packet. “I didn’t send your presents to meet you at home this year, you’re getting them there, tomorrow.”

We looked at our comms. It was promotion orders to Warrant Officers. I was being promoted to W-3, Master Technical Officer, while Ash was being promoted to W-2, Senior Technical Officer.

Mom smirked. “It wasn’t easy to get your commanders to stay quiet about it. They both put in requests earlier this year, about a week apart. I thought they were collaborating, but they weren’t.” Her face softened and pride radiated from her smile. “The Federation likes their Detectives to be Officers, or at least Warrant Officers.”

“Wow, I… don’t know how to respond to that,” I said.

“You what?” Ash’s repeat of his earlier exaggeration made mom laugh.

“This way, you’re officers, but you don’t have to deal with the budgets and requisitions.” She leaned back. “Then again, I haven’t had to deal with a budget or requisition for years now.”

“Because you give it to a Colonel, who gives it to a Major, who passes it on…”

“All right, all right, sorry I started it.” Mom shooed us into the main room and turned on the holo. “No more talking about work tonight.”

“Come on, mom, we’re just —” Ash started.

She cut him off with a curt “I’m pulling rank.”

We watched a football match, then got ready to turn in for the night. The holo was still on low volume when the newscaster broke in with, “The high court has just announced that the sealed records of the attack on Prime Minister Haidara will be released tomorrow, on the twenty-fifth anniversary of the attempted…” I clicked the holo off and went to bed.

My comm woke me up shortly after midnight. Thinking there was trouble with the Major I checked it. Instead it said “ALERT: Records for Kara Plesh found.” My mother — the alert I’d set years ago. Hands trembling I read it, and collapsed, dropping my comm to clatter on the floor.

Mom and Ash must’ve heard it, because they both came. Ash picked up my comm and read it out. “Kara Plesh, 32, firefighter, Bamako, attempted assassination of Prime Minister Haidara, died when police returned fire…. Oh gods, your mother.”

“Did you…?” I tried to ask. I felt seven again; small, vulnerable, and afraid.

“I didn’t know, baby, I didn’t know.” Mom fell into a heap. “I stayed with the Prime Minister, and the Captain did the paperwork. They never told me who — they never….”

I had a brief flash of anger which was immediately squashed by the overwhelming memories of security, love, acceptance, everything she’d ever done for me. Now it was my turn. I held her close and let her cry into my chest. “I’m here, mom, I’m here.”

“I’m so sorry, baby, I didn’t know.” She forced the words out between sobs.

“It’s not your fault.” I began to rock her, and wept with her. We relived the night I first met her, except our roles were reversed. Ash sat on the floor and wrapped his arms around us both, and together we cried, assured each other, and shared our pain — as a family.

Trunk Stories

Innocent…ish

prompt: Write about a character who everyone thinks is guilty of something terrible, but isn’t….
available at Reedsy

“I’m sorry, but you’re not the right person for the position.” Her plastic smile did nothing to hide the fear in her eyes. I was used to the look. It was a look that said, “Please don’t carve me up!”

Never mind that I never did such a thing, and anyone with enough intelligence to do any research would know that. Whatever. If their HR isn’t smart enough to do that, I don’t want to work for them, anyway. I’ve told myself that lie so many times I’m starting to believe it.

If the media hadn’t gotten involved from the beginning it wouldn’t be like this. The early news cycles were full of my picture and reporting that made it sound like I carved up my girlfriend and tried to do the same to my business partner. It made for entertaining TV; experts talking about how rare it is for women to be the perpetrators of this sort of crime.

When the truth came out, and my ex-business partner was arrested and charged with murder, the news ran it as a footnote. It just didn’t have the same sort of appeal. It was all too pedestrian to grab headlines. Caroline and James had an affair. I knew about it and was okay with it. James wasn’t. He decided if he couldn’t have her to himself, no one could.

I had come home early and heard screaming. I grabbed a knife from the kitchen and ran to the back where the screaming had stopped. There was so much blood. It wasn’t clear who it was straddling Caroline’s body, slashing at it with one of our own knives. I stabbed as hard and fast as I could in his back. On the third strike it sunk to the hilt and got stuck there. He screamed and whipped around, brandishing the matching knife to the one that was stuck in his back. I ran.

I flagged down the first police car I saw. They didn’t hesitate to cuff me and put me in the back. When they sent another unit to my home, they found James bleeding out on top of Caroline, one knife stuck in his back, the other in his abdomen. He had some balls to stick himself like that. Still, didn’t look good for me.

Before the investigation was even properly underway the media was reporting on it as if I was guilty. Someone leaked the story to the local news station, and it went national from there. The consultancy business, our business, folded within the week.

When I went to trial for stabbing James, the prosecutor used the fact that I had stabbed him three times in the back as proof that it wasn’t self-defense. My attorney disagreed, in that the defense of a third party is treated the same. The jury found in my favor in less than twenty minutes of deliberation.

Still, the local media played it as a minor story, as they did with James’ trial. It just wasn’t sexy enough to maintain the spotlight. Still, it all would have died down, if not for the documentary.

I was never contacted about it and knew nothing about it until Caroline’s mother called to tell me they had been interviewed for it. The producers and director made it sound like I was jealous of Caroline and James and wanted to take his half of the business away from him. James was made to look like a victim, doing life for a crime that he didn’t commit.

Key pieces of evidence were left out of the documentary. James’ skin and blood under Caroline’s fingernails and the scratches on his neck. Her defensive wounds. The fact that I had none of Caroline’s blood on me, and my fingerprints were only on the knife in James’ back. My cell phone GPS data put me on the interstate at the time the first disturbance call about Caroline and James screaming at each other was called in. In essence, they ignored the entire body of evidence that was shown to the jurors that found James guilty of first-degree murder.

The documentary used snippets of the interviews with the prosecutor and District Attorney out of context to make it look like they had a vendetta against James from the beginning. Somehow, they got hold of my medical records and used my treatment for depression ten years prior to make me look crazy. Caroline’s older brother, who hated me, was featured prominently, while her mother, sister, and younger brother were ignored except for the “I miss her” parts — probably because they liked me and said good things about me.

With careful editing, in an entire eight-hour documentary series, they made me look guilty without saying I was. So, not enough for slander or libel charges to stick. Even if I had won in court, it wouldn’t matter. I’ll continue to be “guilty” in the eyes of everyone who hasn’t got the time or inclination to research anything for themselves.

Caroline’s younger brother, Stephan, has been wanting to do a documentary that shows all the evidence, but I advised against it. It would just feed the conspiracy crazy public into thinking that he and I had some sort of affair, never mind that I’m a lesbian. He ignored me though, and he’s been scouting for a director and trying to crowd-fund the production. If it ever happens, though, I’ll be there to tell the real story.

I’ve been staying in the cheapest one-room apartment I could find and working at a fast-food joint; the only place so far that would hire me. The manager’s convinced that it’s all part of some plot to cover up something from the consulting gig James was doing for the Department of Defense. How streamlining HR processes turns into a national security issue worthy of destroying lives is beyond me, though.

I worked the counter for half a day before I was recognized. The resulting disruption meant that I’ve been relegated to doing only the drudge work in the back. I have a master’s degree in Human Resources Management, and I flip burgers and push a mop for eight hours a day for minimum wage. At least I have work for now.

I moved away for a while. No matter how far I went though, I still got the stares and dirty looks. I figured that if I was going to be treated the same everywhere, it might as well be in a place I know.

Despite how the documentary made it sound, I did not kill my girlfriend. Of that, I am innocent. As far as trying to kill my former business partner, a jury called it defense, and found me not guilty. To be fair, though, in the moment, when I thought I could still save her, I did try. It’s given me a whole new mindset when watching these documentary series. No matter how guilty they may make a person look, I always remember they may be, like me, innocent…ish.

Trunk Stories

Katherine Quartz, MSW

prompt: Write about someone telling their family they won’t be continuing the long-standing family business….
available at Reedsy

For the third time in as many minutes, Kat checked her polished tusks for stray lipstick. Her waist-length onyx hair was piled into an elaborate up-do, held by two plain silver hairpins that had been her grandmother’s. The lipstick she kept re-checking was the same deep chocolate brown as her evening gown, setting off her ochre-yellow skin and deep green eyes.

“Kat, you look beautiful, quit stressing it.” At just a shade over five feet tall, Gwen stood as high as Kat’s armpits. Where Kat was a mountain of muscle in warm, earthy tones, Gwen was a wisp of pale pink with light violet eyes and white hair. Her dress was deep blue silk, showing off her odd coloration without clashing with Kat’s.

“I don’t know if I’m ready for this,” Kat said.

“You’ll see, everything will work out.” Gwen held a diamond necklace. “Sit, I’ll put this on you.”

Kat let Gwen put the necklace on, acutely aware that she was about to step out of the house wearing eighty-thousand dollars in diamonds around her neck. If they had been in Kat’s neighborhood, she would never even consider it. She looked at the sparkle of the necklace in the mirror, feeling like a queen. “You sure it’s okay?”

“Yes. They’re mine and I said so. Tonight’s going to be awesome!” Gwen tugged inefficiently at Kat’s hand trying to get her to stand up. “Let’s go, the limo’s waiting,” she said with a mock pout.

Even though she was only fifty-four, Kat often felt like the “adult” in the relationship compared to the nearly two-hundred-year-old Gwen. “Life isn’t a series of happy endings.”

“Sure it is, you just have to find them, like we just did… in the shower.”

“That’s not what, I meant and you know it.”

“It’ll be fine,” said Gwen. “Come on, Grumpy.”

Kat growled a low rumble, making Gwen giggle. “Fine, Squeaky.”

They arrived at the wrap party for the eighth and final season of Quartz Security, a reality TV show that centered around Kat’s parents and their private security business. Kat had been able to avoid the cameras by virtue of refusing to sign a release form, despite being hounded about it every year.

She didn’t want to be in the limelight, and yet here she was, stepping on to the red carpet to be with her girlfriend. The TV cameras and reporters hounded the couple as they walked hand-in-hand into the venue.

Once inside they were accosted by Gwen’s parents. Her mother was a few inches taller than Gwen, with the same pale skin but with ice-blue eyes, and dark brown hair. Her father was shorter than both of them, with dark, ash-grey skin, violet eyes, and pure white hair.

Kat offered her hand. “Good evening, Mister and Missus Blackrock.”

“Oh, please,” she said, “just Isobel and Thomas.”

Thomas looked around for a second with a puzzled expression. “Guinevere, where is this special—,“ he stopped when Isobel nudged him with her elbow.

She looked at their locked hands and said, “Well, dear, you said we’d be surprised. It seems your father is, for certain.”

“You’re dating…”

“Yes, Dad, I’m dating an orc. You’re a dark elf, mom’s a light elf, I’m a mixed-up elf and I’m dating an orc.”

“No, I mean…”

“Yes, Dad, she’s a girl, I’m a girl, we’re both girls.”

Isobel gave Kat a warm hug. “Never mind him. Welcome to the family.”

Thomas shook his head. “No! That’s not it. Orc, fine, girl, fine. You’re Katherine Quartz, right? George Quartz’s daughter?”

“I am,” Kat replied.

“You, uh…,” he paused, seeming to change gears, “you’ve worked so hard to keep away from the camera, but you’re here… and you’re dating the most well-known face in Hollywood.” His expression wasn’t a full-on flinch, but it was close. “I thought you wanted privacy?”

“First, I’m dating all of her, not just her face,” Kat said, eliciting a giggle from both Gwen and Isobel. “Second, Gwen is more important to me than my privacy. And third, I’m here because Gwen insisted.”

“I hope,” Isobel said, “that you don’t do everything Guinevere insists on.”

“God no. That would be tiring, and quite possibly dangerous!”

Gwen pouted. “Quit teasing.”

Kat pulled her in close and gave her a squeeze. “Okay, no more teasing… tonight.”

“If you see should see your mother, give her my regards,” Isobel said. “She’s a delightful woman.”

Kat noticed that Isobel said nothing about her father. She wondered what that was about but decided to let it rest.

She should have guessed the Blackrocks would be at the party. Their fading film careers were re-ignited following season four, when the Quartz Security team protected them from a stalker. After more than two centuries in show business, half of it in movies, they both had starring roles in current films. Gwen had already had some minor roles, one supporting actress role, and was in talks to play the lead in a science-fiction series.

“Well, Dad, Mother,” Gwen said, “we have someone else we need to talk to before Grumpy chickens out.”

They walked through the crowd, Gwen getting the attention of everyone they passed. Kat took her time, telling herself it was so Gwen could socialize. The real reason for the slow pace was the coming showdown. She feared it, but her best bet would be to do it now, in a very public setting.

At the other end of the room, they found George and Sarah Quartz, sitting on a sofa in front of cameras and engaged in an interview with an entertainment reporter. Kat stopped and looked around for a waiter.

“You need a drink, Grumpy?”

Kat nodded.

“I’ll be right back.” Gwen sailed through the crowd with the practiced grace that came from forty years of dance and etiquette training, and even more of attending fancy parties.

Within minutes, Kat wanted to leave; find Gwen and get out. She was planning her escape route when she was interrupted by a familiar voice.

“I’m surprised you came.” George Quartz stood seven feet and two inches; half a head taller than Kat. His brown eyes sat in a lined face, sun-darkened to a rich leather color, grey touching the edges of his signature buzz-cut he hadn’t changed since he fought in World War II, Korea, and Vietnam. His right tusk was broken off an inch above his lip, while the left was a full, sharp three inches.

Sarah looked like an older version of Kat, her black hair worn in a traditional style: twin braids that went behind the shoulders then were looped back to the front and in loops outside the shoulder like aiguillettes. “Was that Guinevere Blackrock I saw you talking to?” Sarah asked.

“Yeah, her mother says hi. Gwen’s… uh…,” Kat faltered, looking around for Gwen. What a horrible time for her to leave her stranded.

“Her mother’s nice, makes a mean apple tart. But Guinevere… she’s what, dear?” Sarah asked.

Kat screwed up her courage and spoke. “Look, I know this isn’t the best time or place, but I’m quitting the security company. This is my two-week notice, along with the email I sent earlier today. I finished my MSW last year and I’m ready to find work as a social worker.” She added, in a near whisper, “and I’m dating Gwen.”

“You’re leaving?!” George bellowed, followed by a deep, rolling growl. “This business has been in our family since we guarded the Pony Express in 1860. And you quit?!”

“Please, George, she still has plenty of time to change her mind.” Sarah looked at Kat. “Isn’t that right, dear?”

“No, Mom, you don’t get it. I can’t do this. No more. I’ve worked for the family business all my life, and I’ve always said I wanted to do something different, something that helps those that need it the most.”

“Our clients need help,” George said, “your mother and I need help. I want to retire in a few years. If you leave, how am I supposed to do that?”

“You just retire. Maybe it’s time to let go. Keep ownership but turn over operations to someone else. Janice could run things, same as she does when you’re on vacation, or busy doing your TV stuff.”

“I thought I specifically left you in charge when we’re gone. What’s this about Janice?”

“You left me in charge, so I left Janice in charge. She’s better at it than I am.”

“You left Janice in charge of the security business? But she’s an elf!”

“And? Why does that matter?” Pink began to creep up Kat’s cheeks and the pointed tips of her ears. “Why does that matter!? She’s worked there longer than you’ve been alive! I should’ve known my father was a racist.”

“I’m not a racist,” he said, “I just… the job is dangerous and physically demanding, not something her kind is suited to.”

Sarah sucked on her tusks. “Um, dear, I think maybe you should reconsider what you just said.”

Gwen chose that moment to approach and squeeze next to Kat. She grabbed her hand and gave it a kiss. “Can we go, sweetheart? I’m getting tired.”

“What the…?” George took a breath and stopped himself before he said anything else.

Sarah asked, “Is that what you were whispering, dear? You two are dating?”

Kat nodded and George fumed silently.

“You look cute together.” Sarah began pushing George to the back-of-house area. “I think George needs a rest after all the interviews.” She looked at Gwen as she said, “I’m so sorry, dear.”

“Now I know why your mother didn’t send her regards to my father.” Kat tried to hold her tears but failed. Tears of anger at her father’s blatant racism, anger at her mother for putting up with it and shielding him, shame for being related to him, embarrassment from his outburst; most of all, though, anger at herself for not seeing it sooner.

Kat had stopped walking so Gwen held on to her. She couldn’t see through the tears, but she felt more arms wrap around her, guiding her. She let them lead her into a powder room where she dropped to her knees and wept.

“I’m sorry, Squeaky. My dad….”

“Shh, Grumpy, you’re not your dad.” Gwen’s kisses on her forehead were light, soothing.

“I’m, uh, sorry for my earlier reaction,” Thomas said. “I fear I let my interactions with your father color my perceptions, and for that I apologize. It was wrong of me to assume the worst of you.”

Isobel’s voice was soft. “Katherine… Kat, we can get you out to our limo the back way, away from the cameras. Would you like that?”

Kat nodded and sniffled. Gwen handed her a tissue and said, “That’s good, ‘cause your makeup is a mess.”

“We can drop you at your place, or would you rather go to Gwen’s?”

“I don’t think your limo would be safe in Westgate,” Kat said, “and I don’t want to be alone right now.”

“Gwen’s place it is,” Thomas said. “You should join us for dinner tomorrow.”

“Really, Dad?” Gwen asked. “Does now seem like the time to bring that up?”

“Do you love her, Guinevere?”

“What kind of question is that?”

“The simple kind,” he said. “Do you love Katherine?”

“Duh! Of course, I do.”

“From what she said earlier I’m guessing it’s mutual,” he said.

Kat nodded.

“What’s that got to do with dinner?”

“You need to bring your girlfriend over for dinner so your parents can embarrass you properly,” he said, “it’s in the parent contract. Tomorrow just happens to work with our schedule.”

“We’re not going to embarrass her, Thomas,” Isobel said, “but we would like to have you both over.”

In a softer tone he added, “It also seems like she could use some family about now.”

“Can I decide in the morning?” Kat asked.

“Of course, you can. Thomas, help the young lady up so we can get out of here.”

The limo ride was silent until Isobel spoke up. “So, you’re going to be a social worker?”

Kat nodded. “Did Gwen tell you?”

Isobel turned away. “No, we— heard the whole thing… along with every camera in the place.”

The tears started up again. “I’m so sorry.”

“No. You have nothing to apologize for.” Thomas patted Kat’s knee. “You stood up to your father and let him know his views aren’t okay.”

Isobel said, “What I wanted to say is, I think you’ll do great. You obviously care about others. That’s important for that kind of work.”

Kat sniffled. “It pays for shit, though, and I think I just screwed myself out of an inheritance.”

Gwen snuggled closer. “That’s okay, I’ll be your sugar mama.”

Kat tickled her rib making her squeal. “Thanks, Squeaky.”

Thomas smirked and said, “That’s where that nickname comes from.”

Isobel laughed a genuine, open laugh and said, “I meant what I said earlier. Welcome to the family.”

Gwen wiped away Kat’s tears. “See, I told you it would work out.”

Trunk Stories

Rules of Holy Procedure

prompt: Write about two characters on the verge of a life-changing event, but one has rigged the outcome….
available at Reedsy

Those defeated in battle, along with their families, lands, and properties, shall become the spoils of the victor for ten generations. All generations from the eleventh on shall be free. So demands the God of War.

— Book of War: Chapter 37, Stanza 19

The flags of the world government, red stripes top and bottom on a white background with a black skull in the center, flapped in the arid winds off the desert. Gulls called from the shore of the ocean that lapped against the city’s edge. Other than the birds, the streets of the city were silent, everyone taking their mid-afternoon break for prayers and meditation. For Berk, it was a chance to get out of the heat and rest. He wasn’t one for prayers, or meditation, or religion at all; especially not the warrior cult that had taken over the entire world.

He sat at his reloading station, powder, primers, bullets, and shells around him, the press in front. A box full of reloaded ammo sat on the floor next to him. He took a shell and seated a primer. He placed the shell in the press along with a bullet and seated it, no powder. The dummy round sat in the press where he left it.

“Hey, Armine, is it still a cult if it’s the primary religion world-wide?” Berk asked. He turned to look at the young woman, the slave he’d grown up with. Her straight black hair was pulled back into a sloppy bun, and a loose, sleeveless yellow summer dress hung on her thin frame, highlighting her dun skin. Her bright blue eyes shone with a smirk he knew well.

“It’s my opinion,” she said, “that every religion that ever existed or does exist was, and still is, a cult. Even one that runs a global theocracy.”

Berk thought for a moment, then nodded. “I think you have the right of it.”

“You know, if anyone hears us talking like this, we’ll be in the training yard.”

“I know, Armine. It’s just us here, love.” He stood and crossed the room to the small kitchen. “Would you like something cold to drink?”

“Yes, please,” she said. A small chuckle escaped her lips. “What would the priests say if they saw this?”

“Something like, ‘Treat your slave in a manner becoming her station, say ten prayers for purification and meditate on flanking tactics,’ I guess.” He set two glasses of ice-water on the low coffee table and sat on the sofa beside her.

She took a long drink then laid her head on his lap. “No, I think they’d say, ‘Into the yard with both of you!’”

His brown eyes searched her face for some hint of a joke but found none. He frowned. “You’re right, you know.”

“I usually am,” she said.

Berk stroked her hair. “We’ve got the monthly service to attend this evening. I’m sorry in advance.”

She smiled. “It’s okay. I know you don’t mean anything by it, and I’m used to it. My family has been slave to yours for eight generations. This house, and the land around it, was my great-great-however-many-times-grandfather’s when your people raided this land.”

Berk looked out on the sun-bleached skeletons of the orange grove that lay behind the house. His frown deepened. “I know, and it makes me sick. You know I only act the part to protect you — and myself, if I’m honest.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” she said, raising a hand to stroke his cheek. “But hey, I have no offspring, you have no offspring. If we just wait it out it’s over for both of our families.”

“I know.” He continued to pet her hair. “I want my family to end, that’s why I got the operation. But yours doesn’t have to.”

“My child would be your property until your death, at which point I, and my child, will belong to the priests.”

“The Holy Court has already set a precedent. They let a slave and his family go after seven generations when the owning family died out completely.” He smiled at her. “They even awarded the properties of the former owners, as the slaves ‘defeated’ them by outliving them.”

“So, I should just kill you in your sleep?”

“I’m really not ready to die, love. I think I might fight back out of instinct.”

She grabbed his knees in an awkward hug, her head still on his lap. “I couldn’t do it, you know.”

“I know. And again,” he said, “I want to apologize in advance for this evening. It’s not going to be easy for either of us.”

“Why do you say that?”

“The doctor that did the surgery last year was — questioned by the priests last week.”

“You think he told them?”

“I’m sure they tortured it out of him. I’ve been told to be in full battle dress for the service.” He took her hand. “You are to be as well.”

“Full battle dress?” Her eyes went wide. “But slaves aren’t allowed to carry weapons in the city.”

“Tonight, you are.” He helped her sit up and stood. “You’ll use one of my carbines.”

“Do they know you trained me how to use it?”

“I’m sure. It’s expected that I’d teach you how to defend your home.”

“You mean my owner’s home?”

“No, your home. It’s not really mine. Never was. I just happen to live here.” Berk gave a sad smile. “Let’s just get ready.”

Berk laid out his uniform, a pair of matching carbines, and two magazines. He loaded the ammo into both. He looked at them and pulled a round out of one. He dropped the round into the box of completed reloads and pulled the dummy from the press, loading it as the first round in the magazine. He compared the weight of them. Satisfied, he dressed and placed the magazines in a cargo pocket.

Petitioner Garret Hern, 7th generation slave to family Pritt, has been judged as defeating said family by virtue of outliving the entire family line. For what is victory in combat, but staying alive longer than your foe? For this reason, the Holy Court has adjudged Garret Hern and his family free citizens and awards all the properties and monies of the family Pritt to his name. He is cleansed in the sight of the God of War and worthy of entry into the land of the blessed.

— Holy Court Ruling: Hern v. Pritt (decedents represented in absentia by the Priesthood)

Before they left the house, Berk and Armine checked each other’s uniforms, and Berk handed Armine one of the carbines and slung the other over his shoulder. He placed a folded piece of paper in his breast pocket. She slung her rifle and reached for the paper, but Berk stopped her hand. “What is it?” she asked.

“Just a reminder for later,” he said.

She followed Berk by the prescribed three small steps behind to the church. As they entered, they were stopped by a priest, hidden in red and white robes with red gloves, who examined their weapons. “Do you have the ammo?” she asked.

Berk pulled the magazines from his cargo pocket.

The priest looked at the magazines, pushed down on the tops to ensure they were full, and handed them back to Berk. If she noticed any discrepancies, she didn’t mention it. “You may give her a magazine now. You are not to load until ordered.”

“Yes, your holiness,” they replied in unison.

He hefted the magazines for a second, one in each hand, and handed the one in his right to Armine. For her part, she kept head bowed during the entire exchange as expected of her, and accepted the magazine with a “Thank you, master.”

Berk walked to his place in the church and Armine picked up a stool from the pile in the back. She brought it, head bowed, and placed it for Berk to sit on. As he sat, she knelt on the hard stone floor behind him. Around them, others were sitting on stools either brought by their slave or, if they had none, by their own hand. There were glares and scowls on the faces that turned Berk’s way, along with pity in the eyes of those who deigned to look at the slave to his rear.

Beside the podium stood the statue of the God of War, a skeleton clad in combat armor. The priests, instead of beginning the service, motioned to a tall figure in a black robe with a long grey beard hanging almost to his waist; a Holy Court judge. The judge approached the podium.

“We will forgo the usual services this evening,” the judge said in a reedy voice, his beard moving with the words. “There is a matter of heresy in this church, and it will be dealt with tonight.”

The doctor was led out, wearing battle fatigues, a pistol holstered at his waist. One eye was swollen shut and his face was a mass of bruises. He stopped in front of the statue and knelt. The priest placed a hand on his shoulder, and he stood.

“You have performed an illegal procedure. Can you reverse it?” the judge asked.

“I can, your eminence,” the doctor replied, head bowed.

“Once Berk Garvin has been cleansed of his heresy, you will do this, and the church will appoint him a wife with which he is to produce no fewer than three children.” The judge leaned forward. “Until such time as the court has proof that Mister Gavin’s fertility has been restored you are to be considered an apostate.”

The audience cheered, stomped their feet and shouted derision at Berk and the doctor.

The judge flipped a switch on the podium and the training yard behind the church showed in holographic glory in the front of the church. “Berk Garvin has committed heresy by attempting to render himself sterile before producing offspring. In doing so, he has forsaken the sacred pact to his slave, Armine Montoya, and her future family, for whom the church has lined up a suitable mate to produce offspring to continue her family’s penance.”

Berk stood. “And what about Hern versus Pritt?” he yelled. “Did the Holy Court find Hern had been forsaken?”

“Pritt had a wife who died in childbirth, and two sons, not yet breeding age, who died in combat, as did he. Hern was there, fighting valiantly to protect the Pritts, and had a small child left behind in care at the Pritt estate. Your case is nothing like that. You sought to purposely avoid offspring in order to get out of your family’s obligation to the Montoya family. That is sacrilege of the highest order, and an affront to Armine Montoya and the desecration of her name.”

Four priests approached and led Berk and Armine out to the training field. The judge’s voice was being broadcast out here, just as everything they were doing out here was being viewed in the holograph inside. “Berk Garvin, Armine Montoya, load your weapons, and take your places. The aggrieved shall have the cover to the west, the defendant the cover to the east.”

Armine looked at Berk who smiled and nodded at her. Sadness darkened his eyes, even as his smile remained. He slammed the magazine home and put a round in the chamber. Armine did the same.

“I think this might be goodbye, love,” he whispered.

The priests led them to opposite ends of the training yard. There were barricades and small walls spread about for cover and concealment. The priests went into a dugout bunker beneath one side of the field and the large autocannon on the wall of the church swung back and forth between the two combatants.

“Begin!”

Berk stepped out from behind the wall, his carbine at his shoulder. He squinted against the setting sun. Armine stepped out and dove for cover behind the next wall. “I can’t!” she yelled. The autocannon swiveled to point at her.

“You have to!” he yelled back.

She rolled out from behind the wall into a kneeling position. They sighted on each other and pulled their triggers at the same time. One shot rang out, the other was a light pop. Berk smiled. “Good girl,” he said, as blood spread across his shirt, front and back. He was dead before he fell. A cheer could be heard in the courtyard from inside the church.

“It is done,” the judge said. “Armine Montoya has defeated Berk Garvin. The Holy Court has adjudged Armine Montoya a free citizen and awards all properties and monies of the family Garvin to her name. Furthermore, Berk Garvin, dying in fair combat, has cleansed his soul of heresy and will return to the God of War.”

The doctor ran out to the training yard. “No! No! Now I can’t fix it! I’m cursed!” He reached for his pistol and Armine fired again, dropping him. Another cheer rose up from the church.

“Armine Montoya, the family and properties of Doctor Silvas are your spoils, for ten generations.”

“I don’t want it.”

The church fell silent. “You would desecrate the Silvas name?” The judge’s voice wavered in uncertainty.

“I don’t care about the Silvas name. I won’t take any slaves, and I don’t want his property.”

“You would turn your back on the God of War? The God that brought the entire world together under one banner?”

Armine slung her rifle and put her hands on her hips. “You really think an imaginary skeleton in armor did this? If you had read more than your holy book, you’d know there was no god. It was a nihilist group that infiltrated the governments of the nuclear powers and turned their own weapons against them. It wasn’t your god that slagged the planet, it was people; and they’ll do it again someday.”

“Armine Montoya, you are hereby banished. The mention of your name or likeness is blasphemy. You are not to enter any city, town, village, hamlet or domicile in the land of the blessed. May you die alone and miserable in the wastes.”

“Suits me fine.” She walked to Berk’s body, took his carbine, and pulled the paper from his breast pocket and read it. “I’m sorry, my love. If this goes the way I think it will, I’ll be dead. Take your home back, your life. You are free.”

“Thank you. I hope you’re free too.” She kissed his forehead, then walked out the back gate of the training yard.

A victor who claims not the defeated as their own property for ten generations desecrates their own name and that of their foe and is thus cursed for all eternity. Having turned their back to God, the land of the blessed is forbidden them. The defeated so cursed must be purified by offering themselves, their families, and their properties as a sacrifice to the priests of war. So demands the God of War.

— Book of War: Chapter 37, Stanza 20

Trunk Stories

Spotlight

prompt: Write a story about someone who’s famous for something they never actually did….
available at Reedsy

Fame: many claim to want it, a few would kill to get it, I just want it to stop. Every time the story comes up I want to crawl in a hole and disappear. There’s no way I can live up to something I never did.

Perhaps I should back up a little. This all started four years ago. I was sat at my laptop in a 24-hour diner, working late into the night. I had a tricky bit of code I was trying to coax into shape, and chose a booth near the back. The quiet, and the low lights, combined with a double-order of fries and non-stop coffee was the perfect setting for it. When I finally called it a night I felt bad for the waitress. I realized I’d been there three hours and only spent seven dollars. So I laid a twenty on the table, wrote “Sorry for taking so much of your time” on a napkin and left. As I was leaving an older man passed me with a slip of paper in his hand.

At the time I figured he was going to sit in one of the booths, but now I know better. He ruined my life. Sure, he made someone else’s life 8.9 million times better, but I paid the price.

By nature I’m a solitary sort. Crowds make me nervous, cameras make me self-conscious, and public speaking is right on out. I don’t appreciate being the center of attention, even among acquaintances and coworkers. So it was that when I returned to work on the following Monday and all my coworkers began to gather around that I went from uneasy to downright paralyzed.

They asked “Anna, are you going to call her?” Their attention was clamorous and nauseating. Saying things like “wow, I could never do something like that,” and “you really are a saint, aren’t you?”

I finally snapped “what the hell are you talking about!?”

“The tip? At the diner? Friday night!”

That had me more confused. “Yeah, I left a twenty for some fries and coffee, because I hogged the booth for three hours.”

“Not that, the lottery ticket.”

“I don’t play the lottery. It’s a tax on people who don’t understand statistics.” I shook my head, determined to just focus on work. That kept me busy until lunch, when I saw the local news story running on the big screen in the break room.

“A local waitress is trying to locate this woman who left her a life-changing tip on Friday.” A blurry cell-phone picture of me was on the screen, next to a picture of the twenty and the note I left on the table. Under the twenty was a lottery ticket. The old man, that was in his hand!

The news caster continued. “An 8.9 million dollar tip. The winning lottery numbers, revealed on Thursday, matched only one ticket. That same ticket was left as a tip at this local diner on Friday night. Yesterday, we talked to the waitress who received that tip.”

The waitress showed up, her face blurred out. Sure, they can protect her privacy, but what about mine? “My mother’s hospital bills were about to make us both homeless. Now I can pay off my mother’s house and medical bills, and put aside a bunch for my son’s education. I pulled taxes out first, then gave a million to all the other crew that were on that night to share. I would like to give the rest back to the woman who left it. If she doesn’t want it I guess I could donate it to the women’s shelter. I haven’t really thought about it beyond that, except maybe to fix my car.”

“And what kind of car is it?”

“It’s a ’79 Honda. It’s tiny, and rusty, but it’s good enough for me, except it burns oil.” She laughed. “My dad bought it new, and passed it on. It’s got about 950 thousand miles on it, and it still works, so…,” she shrugged.

“This morning, the local Honda dealership offered to completely restore her nearly million-mile car for free, and is offering a new car to the woman who left the tip. In addition, several local businesses have offered free goods and services to the mystery angel who – ” click.

I turned off the TV. “Fuck me. The old man. That’s what he was holding.” All eyes were on me. “Oh come on! You all know better than that. I. Don’t. Play. The lottery.” Everyone turned away nervously, and pretended to be very interested in their lunch. My appetite gone, I tossed the remains of my lunch in the garbage and returned to my desk.

By the end of the work day word had somehow got out to the media, and news vans surrounded the office; cameras everywhere. There was no exit I could take and not be seen. I decided to hold my head high and walk straight out the front door to the bus stop. I ignored the yammering questions until I was almost past all the cameras.

I turned to face them and silence fell, broken only by the sound of camera shutters. “I will only say this once. It wasn’t me. Yes, I was there and left the note and the twenty-dollar bill. I did not leave the lottery ticket. I don’t play the lottery.”

One of the reporters piped up “Ms. Jenkins, the ticket was bought two weeks ago, with cash, at the corner convenience store closest to your apartment. We have you on the surveillance footage in the store the night the ticket was bought. Why do you want to hide from such a selfless deed?”

I shook my head. “Leave me alone.” I turned and walked to the end of the block where the bus stop was and waited for my bus. The crews were clamoring to move their cameras to follow me, getting in each other’s way. Having timed my exit well, the bus stopped and I got on before any more inane questions could be hurled at me.

On the bus, the stares were immediate, and intense. Someone said “Hey! That’s her!” and began clapping. Soon the entire bus was clapping. I got off at the next stop, pulled out my phone and requested an Uber. The driver showed up a few minutes later. He either didn’t recognize me, or was polite enough not to say he did.

Once home, I turned on the TV only to see my face again, next to a grainy surveillance image of me in the corner Fast-Mart. I turned it right back off.

My boss sent me a text, advising me to work from home for a couple weeks until the story died down, as my presence in the office was a “major distraction.” Like that made any difference. My absence was not going to keep everyone from talking about me.

I spent the next couple weeks doing my work as quickly as possible in the early morning hours, then job hunting in far-away places. I could only hope that hiring managers didn’t immediately google my name and see the news pieces.

My phone had been ringing non-stop for days, and I was letting voice mail screen my calls. By that point my face was on all the major national networks, and spreading to international news. They were calling me reclusive, eccentric, and selfless. At least the first one was mostly right. While scanning those messages one made me stop and pay attention.

“Hi, this is Julia Ramirez, Human Resources Director at SaaS Masters in San Juan, Puerto Rico. We’re very interested in your experience with cloud computing and scalability. We have a position as a senior integrations engineer at our South Africa location, and would like to schedule a phone interview with our other senior engineers some time this week. Give me a call back at this number if you’re interested.”

This was the first job callback I had that hadn’t mentioned my unwanted fame. After doing some online research on the company I called.

“SaaS Masters HR, Julia speaking.”

“Hi, Julia. This is Anna Jenkins calling back.” I took a deep breath. “I’m definitely interested in the position, but how would getting to South Africa work?”

“Well, you would start here, in San Juan, for two months training. Just to get you up to speed on our systems. While that’s going on we’d get your work visa and travel papers handled by our legal department, and we pay for business class air travel, and will help with moving expenses and help you find a place to live. If you want to fly first class you’ll have to pay for the upgrade yourself.”

“No, no. Business class is fine,” I said. “To be honest, I just really want out of the country for a while.” Realizing how bad that sounded I quickly added “not that I’m in any trouble or anything, I’m just dealing with a lot of media attention and getting tired of it.”

Julia cleared her throat. “Lo entiendo. I mean, we’re all aware. We get the same news here. It just seemed obvious from your reaction to the interview that you didn’t want to be bothered with it.”

“Well, I appreciate that.”

“Besides,” Julia said, “you said you didn’t do it, why don’t they believe you?”

“Thank you. You’re the first person to say that.” I felt myself relax. “It means a lot.”

My interview was two days later, and within a week I was in the San Juan office. I still got looks and comments on the street, but not in the office. While I was sure everyone knew, they all seemed to be okay with the idea that I didn’t do it.

I spent four years working in the South Africa office until my work visa ran out. While there, I only seemed to get more famous. Some pundits and bloggers called me “famous for being famous” while others, rightly, called me a victim of the media. I’ve become the object of countless arguments online and in the media. My refusal to pick up a free car, and share in the winnings was proof that I either did or did not leave the ticket there, depending on which side one was arguing. Regardless, my last few months in Jo-berg I had to duck the news media, but paparazzi were still getting my pictures in the tabloids and online.

On the flight back I was met with quizzical looks and one traveller who asked “aren’t you the woman that gave away the lottery ticket?” My response, of course, was a simple, honest “No.”

I flew direct from Johannesburg to San Juan, and went through customs there. The customs agents all recognized me right off and wanted selfies, and an autograph. One asked if I ever got my new car. I did my best not to scream at them, and made it through without too much trouble.

I’m due back in the office next Monday. I think I’ll see if I can get assigned to the Seoul office next. Perhaps I’m less of a big deal there.

Trunk Stories

Small Town Values

prompt: Write a story in which two people who know each other are introduced — but neither person admits to knowing the other….
available at Reedsy

Few things require the level of careful discretion as Tamara Pike’s life. As a sheriff’s deputy in a lazy backwater in the middle of the Bible Belt, who happens to be African American, and a lesbian, and kinky, it meant hiding. She couldn’t hide her color or her gender, but everything else about her personal life was sealed up tight anywhere within a 100-mile radius of home.

She spent weekends with her “boyfriend” Thomas in the city, bringing back pictures of them out to dinner, with friends, with his family. He’d even visited her at work a couple times to sell it. In reality he was a close friend from college, and they shared outings to the BDSM club in the city, where they would comment on the women and he’d go find a Domme to satisfy his itch and she’d meet up with her girl.

She spent every weekend she could with Katy, the cute, red-headed coed with a single, bright-green braid at her right temple. She would hear her squeals of delight in her dreams. Katy was far more experienced, and was opening Tamara up to new levels of play. They’d ended their last long weekend with Katy gifting Tamara with a new flogger and a promise of teaching her how to use it. At the leather goods store they looked at collars. “I know it’s too early,” Katy had said, holding one of the collars up for inspection, “but if you decide to put one on me, I’m not opposed to being yours.”

Tamara was glad that she was dark-skinned enough that the blush she felt rising while remembering that wouldn’t be visible. She shook her head to clear it and reported to the morning briefing. After handing out the usual assignments, and making sure everyone had at least two Narcan auto-injectors, Tamara left the noisy pit to head out on patrol.

“Tamara!” The Sheriff, while usually friendly, was overly so. “Come by my office for a minute before you head out.”

“On my way, Sheriff Mercer!” Tamara checked her belt, holster, badge, radio, and name tag to make sure everything was straight.

“You know better than that, call me Jim!” he called out.

“Okay! On my way Sheriff Jim!” Even if they did this routine two or three times a week it never seemed to get old to him, so she kept it up. This time, however, she heard a female’s laughter with his.

“She got you, Dad!” the female said.

The voice sounded familiar somehow. Tamara turned the corner into the Sheriff’s office to see red hair, with a single bright-green braid at the temple. It was Katy. She held her face as still as possible, trying to not think about Katy writhing as she… stop thinking about it!

“Deputy Sergeant Tamara Pike, I’d like you to meet my daughter, Katy.” Jim was glowing with fatherly pride, Katy looked like a deer in the headlights. “She’s in college to become a yak herder.”

“Lame,” Katy said, regaining her composure and punching his arm. “Try harder.” Turning to Tamara she said “I’m actually studying Criminal Law.”

Tamara knew that already, but recycled what she had told her when they first talked. “That’s a tough field, you must be one of the smart kids on campus.”

Katy had initially been hurt that Tamara had called her kid, but that was months ago, and knew now that there was nothing hurtful meant by it. “I am,” she replied.

Jim looked at her, confusion crossing his face. “You admit you’re a…” His comment was cut off by another punch in the arm.

“Smart, I mean,” Katy pouted. “I’m not a kid, I just didn’t want to be rude to your friend.” Standing behind her father half a step she mouthed “Oh my god!”

Tamara laughed. “I’ll remember that.” Inside she was screaming. If she had known who Katy was, or rather who Katy’s father was, she would never have spoken to her. She maintained her calm exterior, and saw Katy give a thumbs-down gesture, the hand signal that replaced a safe-word when unable to speak. Tamara’s nod was slight, just enough to let Katy know that she had her back.

Jim looked at Katy and back to Tamara. “I hate to ask, but could you drop her at home? I’ve got a meeting with the county prosecutor coming up.”

“Sure, Jim,” Tamara said. “Katy, right? Anything you need to grab or are you ready to go?”

“Just my backpack. I’ll see you out front,” Katy said.

Tamara walked out to her cruiser to wait, eavesdropping on the conversation of two other deputies.

“I swear, if I knew Tate had a daughter like that…,” Carter said. “You so much as look at that girl sideways and you’ll be castrated before you can blink,” Jones replied. They were silent for a moment before Carter spoke again. “I just can’t believe he has a kid, and she looks like that!”

Tamara decided she’d heard enough. “Why don’t y’all get out there on patrol, before the sheriff makes a necklace out of your little man-bits?” It had taken a while to get past the push-back from her promotion to sergeant, especially as the only woman and the only African American in the department. Once the dust settled, and two less-than-stellar deputies left the force, the rest of the men grew to respect her, as evidenced by the way they could all tease each other.

“I…,” Carter started. “I was gonna say something about size, but you’d just twist it and make me look stupid.”

“That’s because it’s easy,” Jones said. “Besides, Pike got the brains in her family.”

“Hey!” Tamara laughed. “Who are you calling ugly?”

Jones laughed and Carter asked “Did I miss something?”

“Yes, Carter, you did.” Jones waved. “We’re 10-41, Sergeant.”

Katy exited the building ten minutes later, carrying a large backpack filled to bursting. As much as Tamara wanted to rush to help her, doing so in front of the Sheriff’s office window might not be the best idea. Instead she keyed her radio. “Base, 214 is 10-41 with a civilian ride-along.”

Katy approached and Tamara took the backpack and placed it in the back seat before opening the front passenger door for her. “Why did you call that in?” Katy asked in a forced whisper. “Now everyone knows I’m riding with you.”

“It’s either that or you ride in back.” Tamara got in and started the cruiser. “It’s just the rules, and you know how I am about rules.”

Katy’s face grew pink. “Yeah, I mean, yes, ma’am.”

As they left the center of town and got closer to the farm where the sheriff lived Tamara finally spoke. “Why didn’t you tell me… no, that’s not right. Why didn’t I ask when I first heard you name?”

“Why didn’t I ask you what county you worked in? I never would’ve thought you’d be hired here. Besides, I really didn’t expect to come back,” Katy said, “at least not before I came out. Preferably over a video call. From a state or two away.”

“You realize that if your dad figures us out I’m literally dead.” Tamara realized her hands were beginning to cramp from her death-grip on the wheel, so she forced herself to relax and take a deep breath. “I don’t mean that in the ‘literally as figuratively’ way, either. I mean Jim will take me out to the river, put one in my head and dump me where I’ll wash out to the ocean.”

“He wouldn’t,” Katy said. “Would he?”

“If you weren’t planning on coming back, why are you here?” Tamara shook her head. “That didn’t sound right. As freaked out as I am, I’m glad to see you. I was planning on spending next weekend with you anyway. But what’s wrong that you had to visit sooner than you wanted to?”

“Remember, I told you how Mom moved us away when I was little?” Katy asked. When Tamara nodded she continued. “I see Dad once every few months: birthdays, graduation, a few holidays. But, Mom and I don’t get along. We don’t even talk. When Mom found me with my first girlfriend at 16, she basically disowned me. Kicked me out the day I turned 18.”

“Shit, Katy. I didn’t know that.”

“Because I don’t talk about it. I never told Dad, because I wanted to stay in the city. But I’m over it.” Katy focused on her hands, folded in her lap. “I didn’t know how over it I was until I got the call last night. Mom died. It’s only right I tell Dad to his face.”

“Is that going to be a tough discussion?”

“It was easier, and harder than I thought it would be.” Katy looked at Tamara. “Why do you think it took me so long to grab a backpack?”

“Wow. So, how did he take it?”

“He told me how he was here for me, and if I needed anything to let him know.” Katy shrugged. “Kind of what I expected of him.”

“So how long are you here?”

“I’m taking a sabbatical. I’ll finish out the semester remotely, then probably start back next spring.”

“I don’t know if I can keep us secret that long,” Tamara said. “Unless you can come up with a good excuse why you’ll need to go to the city with me every weekend.”

“I’m going to tell him,” Katy said. “Tonight. I’m coming out. I won’t tell him about you, unless that’s what you want.”

“I’m still afraid Jim will kill me,” Tamara said. “But I’ll be there for moral support.”

“Thanks, I’ll take you up on that.”

They pulled up to the farm house, and Tamara carried Katy’s backpack into the front room. “I’ll stop by after my shift.”

They embraced and shared a deep kiss. “I’ll be waiting.”

After her shift Tamara changed out of her uniform and was heading out to her truck when Jim stopped her. “If you don’t have any plans why don’t you come by the house? We’ll have some dinner and hang out for a while.”

“Sure.” She’d been wondering what excuse to give to show up, but he made it easier for her. “What time?”

“If you don’t have anything else to do could you head over now?” he asked. “Katy gets bored, and I’d hate for her to reorganize the cupboards or something.”

“No problem, Sheriff Mercer.”

“Call me – eh, never mind. I’ll be home in an hour or so.”

The entire drive, Jim’s failure to respond as she’d expected to the joke ate at her. Does he know? Oh god, is he going to kill me? Maybe he’ll just fire me, or arrest me for… something.

The first words Tamara said as she entered the house were “I’m dead.” She told Katy what had happened, how their usual joke had fallen flat. Unable to relax, Tamara and Katy commiserated, wondering how much trouble they were in. Tamara considered running away together, trying to piece the logistics together in her head.

Jim walked into the house and took one look at the two. “Why so glum?”

“Daddy, I,” Katy began, then faltered. She looked at Tamara and then back at Jim. “I’m afraid you’ll hate me, but I have to tell you the truth. I’m…,” she faltered.

Jim looked at her with mock concern. “You’re what? A murderer? A drug dealer? The person who’s been stealing parts from the salvage yard? If it ain’t one of those then I got no reason to hate you. Even if was one of those I don’t think I’d hate you. I’d be mighty disappointed, but never hate.”

“I’m gay.”

“I know. So what?” He smiled and scooped up his daughter in a warm embrace. “I’ve known since you were 12 and getting googly-eyed every time you saw the lead girl on that annoying show you watched. But I have a confession to make, and you both might be mad at me for it, at least for a little while.”

“What’s that?”

“I sent you home with Tamara, and invited her over, in hopes you two…,” he shrugged. “She’s got a fake boyfriend in the city. We all pretty much know she’s gay, but we play along. She worries that some of the other folks in town aren’t as understanding.” Jim sat in his armchair. “I just wish she’d settle down, rather than hang out at that weird club in the city.”

“Wait, you all know!? Even Carter?” Tamara was floored.

“Well,” Jim said, “Carter may not be the sharpest tool in the shed, but I’m sure Jones or someone’s filled him in by now.”

“But, the club…” Tamara felt her heart sink. “How did you know about that?”

“That Blaine fellow on the county board,” Jim said. “Told me he followed you there on three weekends. Thought he could use it as some sort of leverage.” Jim laughed. “When I threatened to arrest him for stalking he decided he didn’t know anything and wasn’t going to say anything.”

Katy looked at Tamara, and before she could respond said “Sorry, Tamara. Dad, I’m the girl she visits in the city.”

Jim looked at the two of them, his eyes wide. “You mean, I just tried to play matchmaker but I’m too late?” He let out a roaring belly laugh. “You two will be the death of me yet.”

“So, um, Sheriff,” Tamara asked, “does this change anything?”

“Between you and me? No. Between Katy and me? No. Between you two, it sure does. First, I expect to see a lot more of my future daughter-in-law outside of work,” he said. “Second, you’d best get to work on earning that promotion to detective. You want to have a good income before you two tie the knot.”

“Excuse me?” Tamara said. “How do you see that working in this town?”

“Easy. You go to the Episcopal Church and have a ceremony.” He snapped his fingers. “Done.”

“Dad, do you really think anyone in this town would be okay with that?” Katy’s distrust was clear on her face. “They’re mostly like mom. She kicked me out as soon as I was 18 and disowned me because I’m an evil, wicked sinner. With all your campaign talk of ‘small-town values’ I thought you’d treat me the same.”

“Listen, I don’t know what ‘small-town values’ means in the big city, but I’ve made it clear what it means to me. At least in town-hall meetings and campaigns.” Jim sighed. “It means that drug dealers go to jail, addicts go to rehab, and if I find out who’s stealing parts from the wrecking yard they’re going to work it off. It means we’re all like family, and we take care of our own.”

Katy grabbed Tamara’s hand. “Do you really think we could walk down the street like this and not get called names, or beat up, or worse?”

“Do I think it won’t rile anyone up? No,” he said. “Do I think they’ll get over it in time? Sure. Just like they did over Tamara herself, once they got to know her. There’s one or two who won’t, but they don’t matter anyway. And what idiot would be stupid enough to assault a law enforcement officer? Especially one that can kick their ass?”

“The Simmons already call me some pretty horrible things.” Tamara sighed. “Of course the rebel flags and swastika tattoos make their feelings pretty obvious.”

“I wouldn’t worry over-much about them. Boys like that have a tendency to put themselves behind bars.” Jim pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. “If y’all don’t mind, I’m ordering pizza for dinner.”

“Sure, dad, pepperoni please.” Katy’s expression was mixed, somewhere between stunned and relieved, with a touch of awkwardness thrown in.

Jim looked at the two, still holding hands. “Now if y’all don’t cheer up and hug or something I’m gonna eat by myself.”

The two smiled and hugged, sharing a chaste kiss. “Don’t get carried away now,” Jim said. “And if I ever find out you hit my little girl, I’ll bury you, Pike.”

“Dad!” Katy pulled Tamara close. “She doesn’t hit me,” she said. Then in a low voice added “unless I ask her to.”

Jim’s ears and cheeks grew pink. “Oh, the club…, no, no no no no no! Too much information! I can’t know that about you! I’m going to go bleach may brain until the pizza gets here.”

Tamara laughed. “I guess you’re right, Jim. Nothing’s changed at all.”

Trunk Stories

One Sided

prompt: Write a story about waiting — but don’t reveal what’s being waited for until the very end….
available on Reedsy

Maria twirled her simple wedding band around her finger, the pale skin beneath stark against her sun-darkened tawny brown. “I’m not sure, but I think waiting, right now, may be the hardest part of all this.”

Emily didn’t answer, and Maria didn’t turn toward her. She’d almost gotten used to the one-sided conversations by now. She knew Emily would remain silent, but she couldn’t help continuing as if that weren’t the case.

“It shouldn’t be too much longer,” Maria said. “Then we can… I can…” she trailed off as tears welled in her eyes, blurring the view of the mountains across the inlet. She wiped her eyes and stood, taking two deep breaths. “I’m going to walk along the water for a bit.”

She walked the beach, watching the ebbing tide pull the water line further out in a slow, methodical dance. Emily used to join her on these walks. They would walk silently, admiring the view, watching the seals pop their heads up, and knowing that the other was right there. A turn of the head would prove it, but they never needed to. Maria missed that feeling.

She walked past a rock outcropping that jutted out past the high tide water line and followed the beach as it curved back inland. From here she couldn’t see the towel where Emily was, nor the umbrella over it. A small green stone caught her eye and she picked it up. Jade. Not uncommon on that beach, but something about this one called to her. A milky line ran the length of the stone; an imperfection making it perfect in its own way.

Maria remembered their last fight. Emily’s porcelain complexion turning pink under the scattering of freckles, her sunset-red hair a tousled mass of wild curls. “Did you even think to ask me first!?” Emily yelled. Maria recalled muttering an apology, which wasn’t readily accepted.

“If you weren’t my wife, I’d…” Emily’s face was drawn, her jaw tight and fists clenched at her sides.

“You’d what?” Maria was trying to de-escalate the situation, but it seemed to her she was failing. “What would you do?”

Emily relaxed her posture and dropped her head. “I don’t know,” she said. “If you weren’t my wife I don’t know what I’d do, because I can’t imagine it.”

That, and a slew of apologies had been the end of it. Maria couldn’t remember what the fight had been about. She rubbed the little piece of jade and stuffed it her pocket. The breeze off the inlet was cold, and she pulled her jacket closer as she set off further up the beach.

She reached the point where the beach became too rocky to walk comfortably and turned back around. A bank of dark clouds was moving in from the south. “Please take your time, rain. Don’t come too soon.”

Maria stopped at the outcropping, not wanting to turn the corner and see the umbrella marking the spot on the beach where she’d left Emily. A bob of seals surfaced in the middle of the inlet and made a bee-line for the far, rocky shore. Maria thought their behavior odd until she saw the orca surface a mere hundred yards away from them. From its size it looked young. “Did you get separated from your pod, little one?” I’m talking to clouds and whales now, I’m not alright, am I?

She thought about pulling out her phone and snapping some pictures, but realized that if she did she would look back at her text messages again. Instead she concentrated on finding more interesting stones.

After finding and discarding a dozen stones and two pieces of sea glass she decided it was time to move back around the outcropping. She kept her eyes on the horizon, where the inlet opened into the sea, and walked. When she reached the towel she kept walking. The idea of sitting down with Emily to wait wasn’t appealing. She would have walked to the sea, but the river cutting the beach just fifty yards down the shore stopped her.

With nothing better to do Maria returned and sat on the towel, her back to Emily, her eyes fixed on the clouds moving in from the south. “This isn’t supposed to be us. We’re not supposed to…” she choked up as tears pooled and her vision swam. This time she let them flow.

“You promised me, Em. You promised.” Maria half wished the clouds would hurry up and drown her. “I can’t keep going like this.”

She pulled the jade from her pocket and a fat tear landed on it, turning its muted color bright. “I found this. It’s like us: a big divide in the middle, but it’s still perfect.” Maria pulled her knees up let her head fall there. “We were perfect, weren’t we?” She cried, great wracking sobs pulled from her soul, all the tears she’d held for too long. “We were… perfect.”

Maria wasn’t sure how long she cried, but when she stopped she felt hollow. Like there was nothing left to feel. The clouds were now gathering directly above and the wind was shifting, gusting in from the south. “I know we were hoping for a warm day with offshore winds, but it looks like it won’t happen. Sorry, babe.”

Maria patted her large bag once, to reassure herself it was actually there. She pulled her phone from her pocket and began looking through her text messages. “I tried calling your mother to let her know, but she still won’t pick up,” she said. “I sent her a text, and told her it was urgent, but she won’t call back. I don’t feel right telling her in a text message or a voice mail. You’d think after calls and messages every day for three weeks she’d… I don’t know, do something.” She was about to complain, again, about how Emily’s mother had cut her out of her life when they married, but she was interrupted by the sound of cars parking, doors opening and closing, and quiet conversation. Their friends, some from out of state, were all here, their faces gloomier than the gathering skies.

The group gathered around her. “We’re here, it’s time,” one of them said. Maria slung her oversized bag over her shoulder and followed them to the water’s edge. “They’re here,” Maria said. “Come on, babe, it’s time.” Still without looking she pulled the urn from her bag and cradled it close. “Just one last kiss before I let you go,” she said, and kissed the top of the urn before dumping Emily’s ashes in the retreating sea.

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