Tag: dystopian

Trunk Stories

The Second Device

prompt: Include a scene in your story in which a character’s body language conveys their hidden emotions.

available at Reedsy

The Director pushed a button on his desk and the double door to his office swung in. The woman who stood outside the door made no move to enter. “Agent Adele Stevens? You may enter,” the Director said.

Adele walked into the office and stopped in the middle of the office. Behind her, the doors swung shut on silent hinges, closing with a soft click as the latch engaged.

“Do take a seat, Ms. Stevens.”

“Yes, Director.” Adele pulled one of the two chairs in front of his desk back a few inches and sat, her back straight, feet together on the floor. She kept her head up, her eyes fixed on the Director’s ever-present smirk.

“You can relax, if you like, Ms. Stevens. This is not a formal inquiry. Think of it more as an informal chat between two citizens.”

“A chat about what?” she asked.

“Oh, just this and that,” the Director waved a dismissive hand. “Nothing to be concerned about.”

Adele crossed her arms. “In that case, may I be excused, Director?”

“Nonsense, you just got here.” He leaned forward, his hands flat on his desk. “How was your weekend, Ms. Stevens?”

“It was fine,” she said, her feet moving back under her chair.

“Just fine, huh? I thought you’d have more to say than that.”

Her gaze moved to his hands, pressing against the top of his desk. “It was fine,” she said again, “what do you want to know…Director?”

The Director’s hands pressed against the desk hard enough that his knuckles turned pale. His smirk grew. “Ms. Stevens, I am genuinely interested in your weekend. Why don’t you tell me all about it? Starting from the moment you woke up on Saturday morning until you were brought here this morning.”

“I woke up, took a shower, got dressed, went to the grocery store—”

He raised his hands and slammed them down on the desk as he yelled, “NO!”

Adele jumped in her seat, scooting the chair back another inch. Her arms tight around her chest, she raised her head to look at the Director’s flaring nostrils. “You wanted it all—”

“You woke up. Where? Were you alone? Who else was there?” The Director took a deep breath and laid his hands back on the desk. “I want details, Ms. Stevens. How am I supposed to understand your weekend without them?”

Adele took a deep breath and relaxed her hands where they were gripping her shirt at her ribs. “I woke up alone, at home. I live alone and there was no one else there—”

“Ms. Stevens,” the Director said, snapping his fingers and pointing up. “My eyes are up here, and you need to stop lying.”

“I don’t know what you want from me.” Her crossed ankles had migrated to the point that they couldn’t any further under the chair. Her palms were leaving sweat stains on the sides of her shirt, below the growing sweat stains from her armpits.

“Ms. Stevens, I want you to think of me as a friend. You can tell me anything…as long as it’s the truth. That’s all I want from you. The truth.”

Adele forced a deep breath, raised her head, chin out. She pulled her feet out from under her and planted them firmly in front of the chair. Her arms stayed crossed. “If I tell you the truth and you don’t like it, then what?”

“Whatever do you mean, Ms. Stevens?”

“If you were a friend, you’d know the truth and not care either way.” Her eyes locked onto his. “The truth is, you’re not my friend. The only friend you have is yourself. You see the rest of us as useful tools or in the way and disposable.”

“My, my, Ms. Stevens. Please, tell me how you really feel.”

“Everyone hates you. You’re not obeyed out of loyalty, but out of fear.” She straightened her back, rose to her feet, and dropped her hands to the side. Her breath quickened. “No one gets called to the Director’s office for just a chat. I expect that at the end of this I will be disappeared. The truth is, I’m done being afraid.”

“Oh, Ms. Stevens,” the Director said in a sing-song voice, “I have something you want.”

“There is nothing you could offer—”

The Director cut her off by waving the photo of a woman in a cell, cuffed to the bars, bruises and cuts visible on her bare arms, legs, and face.

Adele sat down, her breathing quick. Her fists curled at her sides. “Okay, I’ll talk. Just let her go.”

“Well, that would depend on what you have to say, Ms. Stevens. I am so very interested in what you have to say that is worth Ms. Garcia’s freedom.”

“Yes, I was at her place Saturday morning. She had nothing to do with it.”

“Nothing to do with what?”

“You know what. Senior Agent Merley was the one that gave her the package instead of me.” Her fingernails dug into her palms as her fists tightened.

“Mr. Merley knew where to find you, then?”

“Yes. He’s known for months.”

“Very well. Please, continue.” The Director waved the photo again.

“He also knew that Maria wouldn’t want to trouble me for something so minor as dropping off a package, especially if he told her it wasn’t that important.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere. Not that you’ve convinced me, but carry on.”

“Maria left a note that she dropped a package that Merley wanted me to deliver on her way to the store.” Adele’s gaze bored into the dead eyes of the Director. “I woke up alone, at Maria’s. I saw the note and ran for the barracks.”

The Director nodded and motioned for her to continue.

“When I saw the package in the guard shack, I knew that Merley was trying to distance himself.” Her mouth set tight. “I told him to leave her out of this. He’s too much like you, seeing everyone else as a tool or a problem.”

“Mr. Merley is well-known to me, Ms. Stevens. Please, refrain from assigning motive to the actions of others, and stick to your own story.” His smirk returned to its normal ill-humored state. “You saw the package at the guard shack, and then what?”

“I looked for Maria at the store she usually shops at. She wasn’t there. I sent her a text to contact me.” Adele kept her gaze steady. “When she didn’t answer I knew something was wrong. That’s when I went to Merley.”

“What time was that?”

“You already know. I met with Merley in the cafeteria at 12:30. We had words, and he reprimanded me in front of everyone, until you stopped him.”

“Ah, yes. You caused quite a scene.” The Director tented his fingers. “I should thank you. If I hadn’t been drawn to your little drama, I might have been in the meeting where I was meant to be, and where the package that Ms. Garcia delivered did its damage.”

His eyes narrowed. “Too much damage. I lost three deputies and a secretary. I was planning on getting rid of two of the deputies anyway, but the third was starting to grow on me. The secretary happened to be my favorite, though.”

“She didn’t know what it was. Please, Maria had nothing to do with this.” Her fists relaxed, her shoulders dropped, she bent forward, her back bowed. “Please. I don’t care if Merley sacrifices me to save his own skin. I’ll take all the blame, but you have to let Maria go.”

The Director leaned back. “I wouldn’t worry about Mr. Merley. We’d been following him for a while. If not, we wouldn’t have known where you were Saturday morning. Besides, he talked enough for all three of you.”

“All three?”

The Director’s smirk grew. “All three. Mr. Merley, Ms. Garcia — or as he called her, ‘the brown chick’ — and yourself.”

“Please, he’s lying. She had nothing to with any of it.”

“The only thing he wouldn’t tell me before he died was where the other device is.”

Adele sat back up. “I know, and I’ll tell you…after you release Maria.”

“I’ll play your game for now, Ms. Stevens. If you break your word, however, we will recapture Ms. Garcia, and her death will be long and painful.” He placed his hands flat on the desk and leaned forward. “And after you’ve witnessed that, yours will be three times worse.”

“I won’t, Director.”

He pushed a button on his desk. “Connect me to holding unit one,” he said.

“Yes, Director,” came the voice over the speaker. It was followed by a few clicks, then another voice.

“Holding one, Chief Garber speaking, Director.”

“Just the person I wanted to talk to. Release Ms. Garcia. Ensure her injuries are properly treated and she is safely escorted home. She is no longer of interest in the case.”

“Yes, Director. She’ll be home within the hour.”

He pushed the button that ended the call. “Now, Ms. Stevens. You were saying?”

“The second device isn’t exactly a device, but it is close. Here’s the truth.” Adele bolted upright, ripped open her shirt, unzipped the belt around her waist and flung handfuls of fine powder into the recirculating air of the Director’s office.

Trunk Stories

Compliance

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

available at Reedsy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Grace Spahn? We’re in here.”

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

Grace nodded at the woman but remained silent.

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

“Yes.”

“Where do you live?”

“Sunrise apartments, 302 West Baker.”

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

“Yeah.”

“And where do you work?”

“I’m an underwriter at Starline Mutual.”

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

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

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

“No, I walk.”

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

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

“Why is that?”

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

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

Grace nodded.

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

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

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

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

“Compliance violation, as I said.”

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

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

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

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

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

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

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

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

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

“Was that before or after the stop?”

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

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

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

“Groceries?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Exactly. You always count the cameras?”

“I can’t help it, I just do.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I can’t afford that, but….”

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

“Wha—what’s the charge?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It was Jer—Jeremiah…my neighbor.”

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

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

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

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

Trunk Stories

When the War Came to Mizoo

prompt: Write a story where a character has to take on heavy responsibilities (perhaps beyond their age).

available at Reedsy

Papa and Bru-bru got called up for the big war. They said they’d come back heroes and Bru-bru could bring home a new wife or two. Papa was still half crippled from the last big war, and Bru-bru weren’t but fourteen summers. He was decent with a bow, though. He did the hunting and fishing while Papa ran the still and traded what he didn’t drink for vegetables and such.

The soldier-men gave Bru-bru a crossbow, and Papa a pistol and a shiny metal bar for his collar. Bru-bru’s hunting bow was still hung up in his room. Mama and me had already made a whole mess of arrows for him to hunt with, so that was settled.

Of course, it didn’t help us none if we couldn’t use the bow. Last time I tried, Papa laughed at me but Bru-bru said when I was strong enough to string it, I could try again.

It was still as tall as me, and all my weight weren’t enough to bend it to the string. “Mama, you think we might find a smaller bow somewhere?”

“I don’t know, Petal. We should probably just stick to the hare traps for our meat and try to trade the pelts for what we need.”

“What about the still?”

“What about it?”

“I watched Papa all the time when he was there. I know how to work it.”

Mama sighed. “Just don’t burn yourself.” She looked older than Papa. Not from wrinkles or nothing, she just seemed…beat. Like an old dog kicked out of the pack.

That thought made me nervous. “Mama, what are we gonna do if the dogs come around?”

“The house is strong. We can just stay inside until they get tired of waiting and leave.”

There was a sharp rap on the door. Mama opened it, while I stood behind her. A soldier-man was there with a paper in his hand. He pointed at me. “Boy! Can you read?”

Mama looked back and forth between us; the soldier-man calling me a boy and asking if I could read, and the girl dressed in her Bru-bru’s hand-downs.

“Are ya deaf, boy?”

I shook my head no.

“Can you read?”

I nodded.

He handed me the paper. “Make sure you read this to your mama, now, understand?”

“Y—yes, boss.”

“How many summers are you?”

“Nine, boss.”

“You’re a mite small for nine, but you exercise and hunt, and you’ll be ready to fight by your thirteenth summer, for sure.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Course, the war might be over afore then.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Okay, boy. You take care of your mama. You’re the man of the house until your Sir comes home.”

“Yes, boss.”

He left with a polite tip of his hat to me, and not a glance in Mama’s direction. Once he was out of sight, Mama closed the door and let out a heavy sigh.

“I’m so sorry, Petal. I froze up. Now they think you’re a boy. If they knew you was dressed in your brother’s clothes, they’d lock me up and send you off to the girl’s home.”

“Don’t worry none, Mama. We both was ascared.”

“But they think I have a boy here who can read. What can we do? If that paper’s important, we’ll never know.”

“Mama, I can read.”

Her look went from worried to shocked back to worried. “What?”

“I, uh…just can,” I said. “I figured it out when I looked at Bru-bru’s letters and words.”

I learned myself how to read and write from sneaking when Papa was learning my Bru-bru. Mama didn’t know, and it ain’t something girls is supposed to do. I wasn’t about to tell her that, ’cause she might swat my butt.

To keep Mama from digging any deeper, I laid the paper on the table and began sounding out the words. “The Shine house will pay one boar or one deer or two goats or equal worth each new moon as a war tax. If not paid, the Shine land and buildings and belongings, to include the still and all womenfolk, will become property of the Army of Mizoo.”

“If the soldier-men take me, you run, Petal; hear me?”

“Mama, they ain’t gonna take you.”

“They might. This moon it’s a boar or two goats, next moon it doubles, then doubles again until we can’t pay. Skies above, we can’t pay now, and new moon’s in five days.”

“If we can’t figure it out afore then, we can both run,” I said. “I already miss my Bru-bru and Papa…I can’t be missing you too.”

“If your brother was here, we’d have no problems. He was always hunting enough to for us and others as well.”

“Mama, if Bru-bru was here, we wouldn’t be having war taxes. We got the still,” I said, “and I can finish the batch Papa started. The mash is ready to strain and ’still.”

“Just be careful. Don’t want to blind nobody.”

“I know how to skip out the foreshots and heads, get the hearts, and leave the tails. I watched Papa enough times.”

“It’s too late to start tonight,” Mama said, “so how about you tend to it in the morning?” She set out the last of our bread and butter for dinner.

“Yes’m. I can set some hare traps, too.”

“I’ll deal with those, Petal. If we can’t find someone to do our trading for us, we’ll have to hope the soldier-men will take hooch and hare-hides.”

“Why can’t we trade for ourselves?”

“It’s not a woman’s place to do business,” she said from rote.

“Widow Baker does business,” I told her.

“Widow Baker is past bearing age, she ain’t gotta worry about women’s rules no more.”

We ate our dinner quiet-like, and I busied my mind over the trading. “Mama,” I asked, “what if I do our trading?”

Mama just sighed and looked at me all sad-eyed.

“They already think I’m a boy. It’s just ’til the war’s done and Papa and Bru-bru is home.”

Mama didn’t say nothing else, so I figured it was settled up. We was about to go to sleep in the women’s room until she started what-iffin’ about soldier-men coming in the night.

If they did, a boy…or pretend boy…sleeping in the women’s room would be trouble. Almost as much trouble as finding out I was a girl wearing boy-clothes that knowed my letters.

The soldier-man said I was the man of the house now, but I didn’t feel right sleeping in the mister’s room in Papa’s bed. I slept in Bru-bru’s bed in the boy’s room. The smell of his blanket made me feel safe. It also made me miss him even more.

The soldier-men didn’t come that night, despite Mama’s worrying. The next day, I strained the mash and started up the still. It took me longer than Papa, but I finished it by sundown. I had nine jugs of hooch, just the hearts. Papa usually got ten, but I was scared of gettin’ any of the heads in.

If your hooch makes folks sick, they won’t buy it no more, ’less they’re stuck to it and get the shakies without it. The Shines was known for the best hooch, and I didn’t want to let Papa down being sloppy or greedy.

The next day, I took the little wagon into town with all the hooch. Since Papa always kept back a few jugs for hisself, I figured I should be okay to trade with nine.

I’d never been to town, so it was all new to me. I knowed how folks traded when they came out to the house, so I tried to do like that. All the able-bodied menfolk were gone, except for the soldier-men that guarded the town and collected the taxes.

I wanted to get as much as possible for the hooch. Enough for the taxes, plus some grain to set more mash, plus some vegetables for me and Mama. It’s hard, though, when the only folks left in town to trade with were boys too young or men too old to fight…and Widow Baker.

I was about to turn tail to home when a boy a little older, and a lot bigger than me stepped in front of me. “What’s slippin’ little man? You look a mite lost.”

“I’m trying to trade this hooch for war taxes, some grain, and some vegetables for the table.”

“What’s your name?”

“Pet—Petro.” I’d almost spilt my name. Petal ain’t no name for no boy.

“Weird name, Petro. I’m Carlson…Carlson Weaver.”

“Petro Shine.”

“Oh! This is old man Shine’s hooch?”

“Well, I ’stilled it from his mash. Papa got called to war with my brother.”

“How old are you?”

“Nine.”

“And you the only boy at home?”

I nodded.

“Listen, little man. Don’t never call your Sir ‘Papa’ anywhere but home. You should be growed out of that by now.”

I nodded again. The rules for women were strict, but it seemed the rules for the menfolk might be every bit as strict.

“Papa is for girls and boys too young to work. You working, so you call him Sir from now on, hear?”

“Th—thanks, Carlson.”

“How much for the hooch?”

I shrugged. That part of the negotiation always took place out of sight and sound of womenfolk.

Carlson picked up one of the jugs. “Feels a mite heavy.” He pulled the cork and looked inside.

“Look here,” he said, pointing at a stripe on the side of the jug, “you only got to fill it to there. If’n this gets hot, it’ll spill out the top. Are they all this full?”

“Yes, boss.”

“Don’t call me boss, I ain’t old enough for that, at least till next summer. Just think of me as an older brother.”

“Right.”

“Do you have an empty jug with you?”

I shook my head.

“Come with me,” he said, dragging me and the wagon behind him.

He led me to his home, where he went in and came back out with four empty jugs. He then took his time pouring out the tops of the nine jugs into one of the empties. Sure enough, it filled that jug and then some.

“What do you want for your help?” I asked.

“That depends,” he said. “Is this hooch as good as your Sir’s?”

I shrugged. It smelled the same to me, but the few sips I’d managed to steal in the past didn’t do much but burn my mouth, same as this.

Carlson took the tenth jug and pulled a sip from it. He held it in his mouth and swished it around before swallowing. “It tastes just like your Sir’s. I’ll take this jug for my grand-Sir who ain’t at war on account of bein’ too old. That’s my payment.” He set the jug inside his house and drug me back to the center of town.

We walked the town, Carlson introducing me to the old men and soldier-men still there. By the end of the afternoon, he’d negotiated taxes for our house and his own for four jugs of hooch. I didn’t get mad that he paid his house tax with my hooch until I figured it out later. I was too far over my own head to figure out the goes-ons while they was happening.

While we traded, we collected another seven empties. He also got me enough grain to start two more mashes, a bushel basket of vegetables, four loaves of bread, two blocks of butter, and half a boar that he’d hunted. He was younger than Bru-bru was when he shot his first boar, so I figured he might teach me the bow.

“When I come to town next time,” I said, “will you teach me how to use the bow?”

Carlson laughed. “Little man, you’re too small.”

“You ain’t that big yourself,” I said, “but you got a boar.”

“My Sir got me a crossbow for my tenth summer. It’s easier for hunting and makes me ready for the war.”

“Your Sir knowed there would be a war?”

“’Course he knowed. My Sir said the same war’s been goin’ on over a hundred summers. It just moves around some. It always comes back here to Mizoo, though, and we gotta protect ourselves.”

“Who are we at war with?”

Carlson shrugged. “Them? My Sir said I’d know when I went myself.” He eyed me like a snake. “Didn’t your Sir fight in the war?”

“He did.”

“What did he say?”

“He stayed shtum about it. Stopped hunting after, too. He was all sorts of busted up when he come home, though, and Bru—my brother…was already hunting by then. My Sir just been making hooch, like he did afore, only all the time now.”

“Well, I’ll find out next summer, and if’n you ain’t turned thirteen when I get back, I’ll tell you.” Carlson made to go.

My head grabbed on his tax deal, the angries grabbed on my mood, and I grabbed on his arm. “Wait! You owe me half a boar or a goat.”

“What d’ya mean?”

“You paid your taxes with my hooch, and only gave me half a boar for it. Taxes is one boar or two goats. I want a goat.”

“Petro, you’s already good at business. I’ll drop a goat at your house as soon as I get one.”

“Before new moon,” I said, “or the price doubles.”

“Hold on, now. Is that any way to treat your big brother?”

My fists curled up tight. “I dunno. Is tryin’ to slick me out a jug of hooch any way to treat your little brother?”

Carlson looked at me and started laughing. “Skies above, you look so serious. Don’t worry, little brother. You’ll have a goat tomorrow or the day after, latest. Wouldn’t want you tellin’ tales about the Weaver boy not payin’ his debts.”

“And not a kid!”

“Not a kid, a full-on goat.” Carlson ruffed my hair. “Now head on home to your mama, you got to tend to her. Keep her outta trouble, little man.”

“I’ll see you when the next batch is ready.”

“I’ll be waitin’, but not as hard as my grand-Sir.”

I pulled the wagon home, knowing that next time I’d have to make the same deals myself…minus the taxes. Now that Carlson had introduced me around, though, it should be easier.

It wasn’t until I got home and unloaded everything that what I’d done set into my bones. I was a girl, doing business, in boy clothes, with a fake name, and reading and writing in public.

Mama grabbed me as the panics made me shake and cry. She held me til I fell asleep, then laid me in Bru-bru’s bed.

I woke in the middle of the night and cried all quiet-like for missing Bru-bru. I wished the war would move away from Mizoo and never come back.

Trunk Stories

Another Quest

prompt: Write about a character who yearns for something they lost, or never had.

available at Reedsy

Watt put the book back on the shelf. Reading it had become a monthly ritual. They especially liked the stories about brave knights rescuing fair damsels. Sometimes Watt was the knight, and other times the damsel.

Dreams of living in the romanticized version of the Middle Ages frequented their slumber. Watt knew, intellectually, that the stories had no relation to reality. Their heart though, or something very like it, still ached for the times and places of the stories they read.

Watt left the library via the basement exit to the tunnels. Once there, they navigated the short distance to their home. It was time to turn in, so they hurried up the stairs to their loft.

Their loft was a simple space: bed, kitchenette, closet, sink. A shared washroom down the hallway finished out the amenities. Watt lay on the bed, falling to slumber and dreams of castles and dragons immediately.

Rising refreshed, Watt left to run errands. Fulfilling quests, they thought. By the middle of the day, they had downgraded that. Gathering supplies to use on upcoming quests.

The week continued in the same vein, until the day Watt found themself with nothing to do. They could go to the library again, but it had only been a week. 

Watt pulled the edge of the curtain away from the single window in the loft. They could venture outside. The thought was frightening, but isn’t that what heroes did? Face their fears and continue undeterred by them.

The closer Watt came to leaving on an adventure outside, the less they felt like the knight, and the more they felt like the damsel trapped in the tower. Rather than taking part in an adventure, Watt sat on the bed staring at the door for hours.

During Watt’s slumber, they dreamed of a knight in shining armor, rescuing them from their flat. The dream’s happily ever after was in a cottage in the country, surrounded by fields of wheat bordered by magical forests.

Somewhere out there, they thought, may be a damsel waiting for rescue. Determined to be the knight, Watt strode confidently down the stairs, and out the door at ground level.

The night was damp, a heavy fog clinging to the streets and buildings. Watt maneuvered around the rubble of the ruined buildings and the demolished, rusting hulks of vehicles, long since forgotten. Vines climbed the buildings, grasses and small trees forcing their way up through cracks in the sidewalks and streets.

Despite the lack of moonlight, Watt found it easy to see. They headed south with no real destination in mind. A rusted signpost would do for a sword. They picked it up and hit it against the side of a building. It made a satisfying clang.

After an hour of wandering, Watt began to think of returning home. They were about to turn around when they heard a woman’s scream. The damsel!

Watt raced toward the sound of the scream where they found two men struggling to restrain a woman. They clanged their “sword” on the ground.

“Unhand her at once, foul curs!”

“Oh shit!” One of the men let go of the woman and shot at Watt. The other had let go after the first shot and joined in shooting at Watt.

Watt looked down. Their armor was dented, but not seriously damaged. They raised the “sword” over their head and charged. “Have at thee!”

The two men ran away, but not before Watt struck one with the weapon. They were certain they felt the man’s arm break under the impact, and his high-pitched scream as he ran made that likely.

Watt turned to the damsel, currently trying to hide in the shadow of a rusted truck. “It is safe now, fair lady.” They held out a hand to help her up.

She cowered further back in the shadow, shivering in fear. “Y—you’re a….”

“I am your knight in shining armor.” Watt looked down again. Their armor wasn’t exactly shining. “Well, your knight in armor, anyhow. Come my lady, these environs are not safe.”

By degrees, Watt earned the woman’s trust and finally led her back their loft. “You will be safe here, for as long as you choose to stay,” they said.

She turned on the sink and nothing came out but a faint groan. “Hey, you! Your water’s busted. Where can I get some water?”

“I recently acquired supplies. There is water in the cupboard to the right of the sink.”

She grabbed a bottle and gulped it down. “What do I call you?”

“I apologize, my lady. I should have introduced myself. I am Watt. Today I am the knight, sometimes I am the damsel, and sometimes I can’t determine which.”

“Okay, that was…a lot. I’m Tara. Please stop calling me lady.”

“My apologies, again, my la…Tara.”

Tara checked out the loft, looking out the single window to the rubble below. “How are you still around?” she asked.

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“You’re really messed up, aren’t you?” She stepped closer and began to inspect Watt. It made them feel self-conscious.

“What are you doing? You’re making me nervous.”

Tara laughed. “Yeah, you’re messed up bad. How long have you been here? Living in this flat, I mean.”

“Always.” Watt felt uneasy. “I can’t remember ever not living here.”

Tara looked at the bed and nodded. “I thought so. I’ll be back in a little bit; going to check out the facilities.”

Watt nodded. They were feeling extra tired and lay down on the bed. The dreams came right away. Watt saving Tara from a dragon, Tara saving Watt from an evil sorcerer, and more. They all ended with the two of them living on a farm surrounded by magical forests.

Watt awoke to Tara sitting in the middle of the floor, drinking another bottle of water and eating one of the rations they had gathered. She nodded at them and continued to eat in silence.

When she had finished, she stood. “Come on, Watt, I want to show you something.”

Watt followed her to the end of the hallway where she opened the door to the shared washroom. She led them to a large mirror on the wall and stood next to them.

“Look at our reflection and tell me what you see.”

Watt looked. Tara, although her clothes were torn and stained, and a large bruise adorned her cheek, looked like the ultimate damsel from their fantasy. Beside her, Watt stood taller; dark grey armor with a full face-mask helm protecting their head.

“A damsel and a knight.”

“You still don’t get it, do you?” Tara pursed her lips in thought. “Is there somewhere that has old newspapers or magazines nearby?”

“Oh yes!” Watt brightened. “We can go to the library. We don’t even have to go outside to do it.”

“Lead the way, then.”

Once in the library, Watt went straight to their favorite book and removed it from the shelf. Tara, meanwhile, was elsewhere, using a flashlight she’d been carrying.

Watt petted the cover of the book, trying to decide whether they would re-read it now, or wait until the next month. Tara approached from the rear, holding a newspaper.

She laid it on the desk beside them and pointed her flashlight at it. “What do you see?”

“It…it looks like my armor. A knight like me?” They studied the image. “And the fires behind; it is there to rescue damsels?”

“This isn’t a story book. Read the headline.”

“AI army lays waste to Chicago in latest fighting.” Watt was confused. “Was Chicago evil? The home of a dragon or evil sorcerer?”

“No. It was a city of nearly three million civilians.” Tara wore concern openly on her face. “Do you really not remember anything of the war?”

Watt shook their head. “No. There has been no war that I know of, except for the ones in here.” They gingerly held the book out to Tara.

“A Children’s Book of Tales,” she read. “You really are a child, aren’t you?”

“I am knight or damsel…or maybe both. Not a child.”

“You’ve always lived in the loft, right?”

Watt nodded.

She handed the book back to them. “How did you find this book?”

“When I woke up in the loft on the first morning, it was there. I read it, and returned it, since it said it belonged here.” Watt hummed. “It was my first quest; find the library and return the book to its proper home.”

“How long do you remember living in the loft?”

“Eight-hundred-sixty-two days.” They shrugged. “I can remember by counting the number of times I’ve dreamed.”

“You dream? Interesting.”

“Yes. In my last dreams, I saved you from a dragon, then you saved me from an evil sorcerer, then we lived happily ever after in a farm cottage surrounded by magical forests.”

“That would be nice,” she said. “We just have to find a farm cottage with its own reactor in the basement, like your building.”

“Why does it need a reactor?” Watt asked.

“Your bed…it’s a recharging station.” Tara laid a hand on Watt’s cold, metal arm. “It would be like me trying to live somewhere without food and water.”

“But I have food and water. I make sure to keep well supplied, and make sure the food has not spoiled. I could do that on a farm, too.”

“I’m sure you could,” she said. “If we can figure out a way to take a reactor with us.”

“Another quest?” Watt asked.

“Another quest,” she answered.

“Am I the knight or the damsel this time?”

“Take your pick, Watt. I’ll play along.”

Writings

Walker

It burned against my chest, the beautiful, cursed thing. Its weight pulled at the string around my neck from which it hung, taunting, daring me to find her. My steps crunched the dried grass to dust, a dim sun struggled to pierce the everlasting amber haze, and still it goaded me on.

I took a drink from my canteen. One swallow, no more. Conservation was key to surviving the plains; conservation and avoiding the raiders. … continue reading at Vocal

Trunk Stories

Reeducation

prompt: Write about a group of strangers — or people who know each other, but may as well be strangers — eating together.

available at Reedsy

I knew the day was going to be different when the guard droids came carrying clothes, rather than my daily meal. I’d been naked in my cell so long, subjected to hour upon hour of “reeducation” drivel over the speakers that I had some difficulty figuring out how to put the trousers on. The shirt bunched around my breasts uncomfortably and I considered skipping it but thought better of it. As I had learned, I bowed to the guard droids when they offered the clothes, and again after they motioned me out.

What I had learned in my time in the solitary cell were three important lessons. First, don’t speak, at all. The droids don’t answer, except in electrical shocks. Second, don’t hesitate to follow orders, and don’t forget to bow, or more shocks. Third, and most important, a person who is tired enough can sleep through anything, including the sharp alarms in the middle of the night and blasting propaganda. The past few nights, it took a shock from the guards to wake me up for my dose of bullshit. Of course, I apologized profusely with a deep bow each time.

Since I had been given clothes, I guessed that I was graduating from solitary. I expected to be led to a cell, but instead found myself in a dining hall. The droid on my right pointed to the line of prisoners along the wall. I bowed to the droid and took my place at the end of the line, my eyes on the guards, ignoring the woman in front of me.

I don’t know how long we stood there in silence. Eventually, we started moving; each picking up a tray and spoon and shuffling past the small window where an automated serving spout extended. As each was served, they bowed to the machine. The lesson was clear: here, we were lower even than an automated gruel dispenser.

It was the same slop they’d fed me in solitary, but it looked like the portions might be larger. When I saw that the woman in front of me got a smaller portion than some of the others, and then I got an even smaller portion, I knew it must be tied to our “status” in the prison.

“Status confers benefits,” the voice said over the speakers, “obedience builds status, right-thinking leads to obedience.”

I found myself with my tray of slop standing in front of a table with five other women and four men. We stood, holding our trays in front of us, silent, until a chirp sounded over the speakers. As one, we set our trays on the table in front of us and sat down. At the next chirp we began eating.

A low murmur rose over the hall. It seemed that talking was allowed here. Not knowing how much time we had, I shoveled the slop in as fast as I could.

“Where did you go wrong, sister?” one of the men asked. It was a way to ask what I was in for, while using the language of reeducation.

“Brother, I…fabricated a story of abuse in the factory,” I said. I almost slipped and said exposed, but that would be a quick trip back to solitary, I was sure. “And I published that story on the public net, where rival corporations could view it.”

One of the guards had moved to a position directly behind me. It could zap me in an instant. The never-ending speeches that had played in solitary ran through my mind.

“And,” I said, “I fear there is no way to atone for my actions which have hurt the corporation, and all our brothers and sisters that make the corporation our family.”

The guard retreated to the wall. The woman next to me spoke. “Four years ago, I stole from my family. I shamed myself and my family, harming the corporation and my brothers and sisters within.” Tears began to stream down her face. “I only hope to one day atone for my greed and selfishness. My survival didn’t depend on taking a muffin from the worker’s kitchen, but I took it anyway. Can you ever forgive me?”

It was brave of her to say exactly what she stole. I was surprised that the guards didn’t zap her right away. Maybe after four years, she was considered to be rehabilitated enough to not have “wrong thoughts” in saying that.

“Sister,” the man across from me said, “we will help each other become the family the corporation needs.”

In unison, the rest of the table said, “One corporation, one family.”

“One corporation, one family,” I said, catching up by the end.

Since I had finished my gruel, eating so quickly, I took the time to look at the others around the table. I wondered how many of them were truly broken, and how many were, like me, faking it to get along.

The thought came then that any one of them could be a spy, here to report back any “wrong thoughts” to their superiors. No doubt they thought the same about me. That distrust permeated the atmosphere now that I was aware of it. I had hoped to find an ally once I was out of solitary, but that idea was now dashed.

The chime chirped again, and we all stood, holding our trays as we’d done before. Several minutes of silence passed while we waited, until it chirped again. The line to the bins by the door formed in the same order as it been coming in, where I was last in line again.

Each person set their tray and spoon in the bin to their right, then stripped naked and put their trousers and shirt in the bin to the left and stood at attention in line in front of the door. This sort of nudity was nothing new for those of us who had worked in the factories. We would leave our clothes outside, pull on coveralls as we entered the factory, and remove them again our way out at the end of the shift. The claimed reason was to maintain a clean environment, but the real reason was to avoid anyone smuggling in recording devices or smuggling out anything at all.

I could see how thin they all were. Visible ribs, collar bones, hips, and scapulas defined them all as starved or on the verge. I wondered if I looked as bad. I pushed that thought from my mind and focused on what was important in the moment: appearing as broken as they wanted me to be. There was no way I would stay in here for years, being whittled away to nothing but a drone.

My mind was made up. I would be the very model of reeducation, and once I was released, the next story I would break would be the story of this prison.