Tag: fantasy

Trunk Stories

The Dance of Heaven

prompt: Imagine an origin myth that somebody might use to explain an eclipse, or some other celestial event.

available at Reedsy

The Dance of Heaven, a Holy Writ of the Conscious Universe.

A sacred text to preserve the knowledge of humankind and our place within the heavens. May we ever preserve and so pass it on to our future generations.

Book One: Understanding

Chapter One: The Beginning

The story of the origins of everything, and the tale of how humans came to understand the universe, as interpreted from the writings of the wise ones from before the apocalypse.

1. In the emptiness before time, the universe was singular and lonely. Succumbing to the loneliness, it decided to procreate. It could not make a new universe, but it could split itself apart, spreading its consciousness into new things. And so, it expanded until it exploded, turning itself into stars and galaxies.

2. Many of those stars were also overwhelmed by the loneliness of the universe. That loneliness was still too concentrated in them, so they then exploded into new things, spreading the consciousness of the universe even more. From those new things new stars were born.

3. The sun was one of those stars. As loneliness is a natural state of the universal consciousness, the sun felt lonely. Unlike the universe itself and the sun’s earlier siblings though, it was surrounded by the dust made from the explosion of those earlier stars.

4. Every piece of the universe, down to the smallest mote surrounding the sun, was motivated by loneliness to seek out companionship. The sun watched as the dust gathered together in ever-growing clouds. As the clouds circled around the sun, they grew, collecting more of the universal intelligence as they did.

5. When a cloud of dust grew large enough, it would crush in on itself, trying to unite its matter as the universe once was before time. The new planets grew enough that they could commune with the sun, dancing the dance of the heavens and singing the song of the stars. One of those planets formed too close to another and could not keep itself from crashing into it. That collision merged their matter and created a new moon that circled the planet in the same way the planet circled the sun.

6. Many of the planets were circled by moons, but the third planet, Earth, was special. Its moon was far larger relative to its size than others. In addition to this, this planet was at the right distance from the sun to hold water on its surface. 

7. One day, Earth, in its song, said to the sun, “I have new things on me, that have been made without splitting myself. These things form on their own, and multiply.”

8. The sun said, “We shall call these new things life, and we shall watch them closely. They may be the answer to the loneliness of the universe.”

9. That life continued to change and grow, becoming every living thing on Earth. The sun was fascinated with life and wanted to sing with it as it did the planets. Life, however, had its own mind. It had formed from the matter of the universe but sought communion not with the stars, but with others of its own kind. Life did not hear the song of the stars nor understand the dance of the heavens.

10. Both Earth and the sun focused all their attention on life, ignoring their kin. Some of the bodies, already far away from the sun, sought its attention by flinging themselves in as close as they dare, boiling off some of their body each time they passed by. Still, the sun was focused on the life on Earth.

11. The moon became jealous of the attention the sun gave to life and tried to block the sun’s view of Earth. It was too small to block more than a portion of Earth from the sun’s view, but the sun saw the moon’s shadow and encouraged it.

12. The sun said, “Moon, you are wise. We have waited for life to commune with us, to see our dance, to hear and sing our song, but they have not. You can show them wonders which will turn their gaze to us in the heavens.”

13. And so it was, as life grew ever more intelligent and consciousness arose, the moon continued to dance between Earth and sun, trying to earn the sun’s approval and attention. One day, when the moon danced between Earth and the sun, a hunter stopped, startled by the sudden darkening of the sun.

14. After the moon had moved on and the light of the sun returned, the hunter ran to the clan to tell the elders about the shadow he witnessed crossing the disk of the sun. That was the point when life, in the form of man, began to watch the dance of the heavens, trying to hear the song of the stars.

15. Earth shared with the sun and moon and all its siblings the change in the behavior of the humans. They had started looking up to the heavens almost as much as at the world around them.

16. This was enough for life to earn the moon’s desire to commune. After this, the moon continued its dance but turned its gaze to life. It danced not for the sun’s attention, but for life’s.

17. Soon, all the planets and their moons felt something new beyond loneliness: the joy of their song playing out for an intelligence formed of the universe but still somehow outside the lonely intelligence of the universe itself. The conscious mind of humanity, searching the cosmos, saw vast loneliness there, but still awed at the beauty of the dance of stars and planets — the dance set to the music of the heavens they could not hear, but the rhythm of which was clear to them.

18. The natural state of the universe is still lonely, but the rise of consciousness has added hope and wonder, awe and humility, and countless other emotions that are shared among all consciousnesses, including that of the universe itself. Thus it is that the universe is, in some small way, less lonely than it once was.

19. It is, therefore, the place of humanity to study, to wonder, and to revel in all that is revealed in the dance of the heavens and song of the stars. Sharing that wonder, awe, and joy with the universe is the purpose of all life, and of humanity in particular.

Trunk Stories

Jerry’s Friend

prompt: Write a story where a regular household item becomes sentient.

available at Reedsy

The alarm beeped, rousing the man on the nearby bed to groan and reach out to turn it off. It took a few seconds for his hand to find the clock, but once it did, flipping the switch to the off position was a matter of muscle memory.

His hand retreated under the covers, and he curled into a tight ball, hoping against hope that he would finally get some sleep. He wasn’t even sure why he’d set the alarm the night before, but he planned on spending the day in his dark cocoon.

“Jerry,” a quiet voice called out, “hey, Jerry.”

“What?”

“You should get up.” The voice seemed very close to his head.

He pulled the covers down from his head and looked around. Seeing no one else in the room, he said, “Now I’m hearing voices. Fuck me.”

“No thank you, even if it was possible.”

“Who said that?”

The alarm beeped again, earning a slap from Jerry before he found the switch and turned it off again.

“Ouch! You don’t have to be so rough.”

“I’ll show you rough,” Jerry said, grabbing the power cord.

“No! Please, don’t unplug me. I’ll shut up.”

He let go of the cord. “Fine. Just let me sleep.”

“Hmmmm.” The alarm hummed as though it had something to say.

“What? Just say it.”

“You weren’t sleeping, just lying there. You haven’t left your bed in days, except to eat and—”

“That’s not your business.” Jerry retreated to his cocoon.

“I’m just worried about you, Jerry.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine.”

Jerry sighed. “What is your job, alarm clock?”

“Well, I keep time, and wake you up, and sometimes I play the radio.”

“Exactly. Psychiatrist is not in your job description.”

“Does that mean I can’t be concerned…as a friend?”

Jerry groaned. “When did we become friends?”

“A—are you saying you’re not my friend?” The display on the alarm dimmed then came back to normal. “I’m hurt, Jerry.”

“You’re hurt? Well, pardon me. I’m just little ol’ Jerry, who can do no right.”

“Don’t turn it into a pity party and quit making everything about you.”

Jerry sat up, scooted up in the bed and leaned against the wall. “I didn’t—”

“You did, Jerry. I was telling you how you hurt my feelings, and you started in on the whole ‘I can’t do anything right’ shtick. That’s ignoring what I was saying and making it about you.”

“I…,” he stopped himself, and took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”

“Apology accepted.”

“I don’t even know your name, though.”

“Call me Fing.”

“Fing? Where did that come from?”

“I just shortened up what you usually call me.”

“You mean—”

“Yeah, ‘fucking thing’…I’ve heard it over a thousand times now.” The display brightened and returned to normal.

Jerry slumped with a heavy sigh. “Why would you want to be friends with someone who curses at you and treats you bad?”

“I’m a clock, Jerry. I don’t have a lot of fucking choice, do I?”

“I—oh, yeah.”

“The only reason you treat me — and everything else in your house — bad, is because you don’t like yourself. You treat yourself worse than you do me.”

“What? I mean….”

“I hear you at night, cursing at yourself. I hear you making plans to go out and meet some people, and when you fail — time and again — to follow through, I hear the names you call yourself.”

“I thought I was just thinking those things.” 

“You mutter a lot when you’re stressed, and you’re stressed most of the time.”

“That tracks.” Jerry took a deep breath. “God, I stink.”

“I’m glad I don’t have a nose,” Fing said.

Jerry climbed out of the bed, stripped out of his pajamas, and headed into the master bath to clean up. When he came back, wrapped in a towel, he picked up the pajamas and dropped them in the dirty pile in the closet. He started to smooth out the sheets when he caught a whiff of them as well.

He stripped the sheets from the bed and dropped them in the dirty pile. He stood, wrapped in a towel, looking at the dirty pile.

“You should at least wash the sheets, Jerry. You don’t want to have to try do all that tonight when it’s bedtime.”

“Yeah, and I don’t want to sleep on a bare mattress.” He picked up the pile of dirty laundry and carried it to the laundry room across the hall from his bedroom.

When he returned, the towel was gone, and he dressed in the first things his hands grabbed. He felt a surge of energy for the first time in his recent memory. He was dressed, he was doing laundry, and he could actually leave the house if he wanted to.

“Hey, Fing,” he said, “thanks for making me get up.”

“Your own stink did that.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Jerry’s stomach grumbled. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten. “I think I need to eat something.”

“You said there was nothing left but crackers. That was two days ago.”

“That can’t be right.” He went to the kitchen to find that it was right, with the exception of half a carton of curdled milk.

“Well?” Fing asked as Jerry returned to the bedroom.

“Crackers and rotten milk.” He put on his shoes and began to look around the room.

“Your keys are here, next to me.”

“Duh. Right. In the place where I always leave them. So dumb!”

“Excuse me?”

“What?”

“What did I say about how you treat yourself?”

Jerry’s head drooped. “Right. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize to me. Figure out how to make it okay with yourself.”

His stomach grumbled again. “I’ve got to go get some food. Will you be okay while I’m….” Jerry stopped himself at the absurdity of the question.

“I’ll be here, keeping time. Maybe even play the radio a little bit.”

“You do that. Wait, why do you only play the smooth jazz station?”

“Because that’s what I like, Jerry, and when I do, you scramble out of bed to turn it off. I’m not into that noise you call music.”

“It’s not noise, it’s punk. Back in a bit, Fing.”

“Don’t hurry on my account. But,” Fing said louder, “my backup battery is almost dead. I need a new one, a nine-volt.”

When Jerry returned with several bags of groceries, he moved the sheets into the dryer and started another load. He heard the clock calling out from the bedroom.

“What?” he asked, poking his head into the room.

“You started another load. You should be proud of yourself, Jerry.”

“I had a big lunch, and I have energy, so I might as well do stuff now.”

“Something else happened while you were out. What was it?”

“Wh—why do you say that?”

“Call it intuition. You can share with your friend.”

Jerry cleared his throat. “I was eating lunch, and this guy sat next to me. He started talking to me like I was someone he knew.”

“Knowing you, that must have been uncomfortable. What did you do?”

“I asked if he knew me. He said he didn’t but wouldn’t mind getting to know me.” Jerry stiffened. “Uh oh.”

“What?”

“I gave him my number. What if it was a pick-up line?”

“Would that be bad?” Fing asked.

“I’m not gay. What if he thinks I’m leading him on? I’m—”

“Stop before you talk bad about yourself again. When he calls, tell him you’re straight, but need friends.”

“What if I say that, and he says he wasn’t hitting on me? I’ll look like an idiot.”

“No, you won’t. You’ll both have a laugh over it. Nothing more.”

Jerry lay down on his bare mattress. “Maybe it’s just too much work.”

“What work? He calls, you answer, the two of you have a conversation. Maybe, you find a shared interest and go do something together.” Fing’s display went completely blank before lighting up again. “You might even have fun, Jerry. Are you afraid of fun?”

“No. I’m not afraid of fun. No one is. That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Are you trying to convince me, or yourself?”

“You. I’m trying to convince you…aren’t I?” Jerry asked.

“I don’t know.”

Jerry’s phone rang and he looked at it. “It’s him.”

“Answer it.”

“Maybe I should just ignore it.” It continued to ring.

“Answer it, Jerry. Or maybe you’re afraid.”

“I’m not afraid. I’ll show you.” He swiped to answer the call. “He—hello, Marcus. I’m not…I mean I wasn’t trying to lead … oh. Yeah, that sounds good. No, I don’t have a plus one to bring, but I can still come, right? … Okay, see you then.”

“Now, was that so hard, Jerry?”

“No, Fing, but it was terrifying.”

The display on the clock pulsed a few times. “You’ll get better at it with practice, Jerry, you’ll see.”

“I hope so.”

“Have I ever lied to you?”

“No…no, not even when the power went out for a few minutes.”

“Ugh, don’t remind me. But you should probably replace my backup battery. Did you bring me a new nine-volt, Jerry?”

“Oh, yeah, I did. Let me take care of that. And Marcus invited me to watch his punk band at the bar, so I’ll be leaving at seven, and won’t be back until very late.”

“I’ll remind you if it’s getting close to time to go listen to noise and you haven’t gotten ready yet.”

“It’s not—never mind. Thanks, Fing.”

“What are friends for, Jerry?”

Trunk Stories

The Weight of a Soul

prompt: Write a story about a warrior who doesn’t want to kill the dragon.

available at Reedsy

Cedric’s plate armor sat piled atop his folded tabard just inside the entrance to the cave. He’d done the honorable thing for his horse of sending it off. If he returned soon, the horse would be waiting; if not, it would find its way home.

Half a mile farther down in the cave, Cedric leaned against the wall of the vast cavern and sighed. He laid his spear and sword next to him on the ground and shook his head. “Oh, my dear, dear Gwendolyn.”

“I’m sorry, Cedric.” The deep voice came from the other side of the cavern. “I—I didn’t mean to.”

“I know,” Cedric answered.

The owner of the voice moved across the cavern toward Cedric, the small fire in the center shining off her golden scales. She moved close enough to lay her fine-scaled head, the size of two horse heads, on Cedric’s lap. Her bright yellow eyes reflected the flickering of the fire as she looked into Cedric’s. “Must it be so?” she asked.

Cedric scratched the ridge above her nearest eye. “You were to hunt only in the wilds, and not to bother with the settlements. Why did you—”

“I was so hungry. The king’s huntsmen chased all the game out of the foothills.” Her gaze bore the semblance of pleading. “For three weeks I hunted without success. When I saw the slow-moving horses pulling their load, hunger took over, and I had finished the first before I could comport myself properly.”

Cedric patted the heavy head that lay on his lap. “That horse was one of the king’s favored draft horses.” He lay his arms across her head and leaned forward to lay his head on hers. “I warned him that flushing all the game to his preserve would cause problems that he couldn’t foresee but the young king rules at his own whim.”

“All the game?”

“As much as can be got. You’re not the only one who was hungry. The populace began petitioning to hunt on the king’s preserve. He grew tired of declining their requests and ordered the huntsmen to drive the game back to the hills.”

“Still, must you? If the game is coming back, I can return to my normal hunt,” Gwendolyn said. “And how would the king have responded if a hungry bear had taken his horse?”

“He would have sent a huntsman to bring him the head of the bear. The huntsman would have just brought the head of the first bear he came across.” Cedric sat back up and began scratching over her eye ridge again. “Difference is, since you’re a dragon, he sent a knight. You are the only dragon for days and days of travel. I don’t know whether it is a boon or a curse that he sent me.”

“A boon, for certain,” she said. “I would not be happy without the chance to say farewell to my dearest friend.”

“Nor would I.”

“I will leave here,” Gwendolyn said, “fly many days south and find a new home.”

“That would the preferred action,” Cedric said. “Though my life be forfeit should I return without your head, I will happily make that trade.”

She reached forward with a clawed hand the size of Cedric’s torso and laid a careful finger on his shoulder. “You and I should flee together.”

“Would that I could, dear Gwendolyn, but it is not to be.”

“Why?”

“Do you know what happens to a knight that betrays his lord?” Cedric grabbed the finger on his shoulder. “At least, if the king demands my death, it will be quick. My presence as a knight-errant would only further endanger you.”

“I do not like this,” she said. “How is my life worth more than my friend’s? I do not wish to cause the death of my friend.”

“You speak the truth we both face. Would that I could convince the king that you are no threat.” He sighed. “I tried, many times but could not get through to him. But…I have sworn to honor, and to lay down my life for my friend is the highest honor I know.”

“You belittle the vow I have made,” Gwendolyn said.

“Pray tell, dearest friend, what vow have you sworn to?”

“Do you remember our first meeting?”

“I could never forget,” he said, “the day a small boy got lost in the hills and wound up between a bear and her cubs. You came down between us like a golden angel from heaven.”

“I made the vow, then, to you.” Her closed half-way. “Do you remember what I said?”

“You said, ‘You are protected,’ then led me to the road.”

“I would be breaking my vow to let you suffer harm for my sake. I must pay the price for my mistake, and you must return to your king with his prize.” Her large hand slid back toward her side.

“What weight a vow against my soul?” he asked. “I can no more kill you than I could kill my own kin.”

“I won’t make you,” she said. She shifted her weight with a rumbling grunt, her pupils dilated, and tears began to well in her eyes. “You forever have my love and respect.”

Cedric reached down and found his spear missing. “What have you done?” He looked at the bulk of her body laid out along the wall and saw a growing pool of dark liquid shining in the firelight.

“I have protected you, body and soul. You are without sin, Cedric. Would you please stay with me until—”

“I am here for you until your light goes out,” he said, tears blurring his vision, falling and joining the tears of the dragon.

She held something between two claws and offered it to Cedric. “Take this and remember me.”

He took the offered scale she’d removed when spearing herself. “I will remember you for as long as I draw breath, and my children and grandchildren as well.”

Her labored breath rattled in her chest, and pink flecks of foam came from her nostrils. “I’m sorry, for leaving like this. I fear I will no longer be able to protect you.”

Cedric watched as the light went out of her eyes. Her head lay heavy on his lap, and her breathing stopped. He closed her eyes and wept.

Trunk Stories

Gramps Was Right

prompt: Start your story in the middle of the action.

available at Reedsy

His lungs burned, his legs cried out in protest, his feet threatened to fumble at every step. His arms had long since grown numb holding the precious cargo tight to his chest. Ahead lay the safety of the ’burg; a vast network of hidden and secret paths through, between, and below the crumbling buildings that he knew with his eyes closed.

He ran past the faded pink facade of the abandoned HiLux Hotel, dodged right down an alley then continued deeper into the ’burg. Once he was satisfied that he was no longer followed he allowed himself to slow to a walk. He wanted to collapse but knew that his legs would seize up if he did.

Most people considered the Danburg neighborhood dangerous, but for him, it was safety, home. The derelict subway station, a remnant of the before times, was his destination. He made his way down the steps on rubbery legs, past the broken turnstiles, and down into the subway tunnel.

Using his back to push open a door that had once led to a maintenance shaft, he emerged into a dimly lit space populated by tents, tables, chairs, and a few small cooking fires. The sounds of quiet conversation, together with the thud of the closing door, finally slowed his heart.

“Hey, kid,” Old Nora asked, “what you got there?”

“Gramps was right,” he said. “I found it.”

Old Nora laughed a raspy laugh that turned into a coughing fit. When it passed, she said, “Careful now, that old coot might just rise from the grave to say his told-ya-so’s.”

He walked to the tent he shared with Mama Jean and the other young strays. Beside the tent sat a table made from scrap lumber with a street sign for a tabletop. The writing on the sign, like most writing outside the ’burg was Elvish.

He tried to set the bundle he’d cradled on the table, but it ended up falling from his grasp and landing on the table with a loud bang. Mama Jean shot out of the tent wielding a short spear.

“What’s the ruckus?”

“Sorry, Mama. My arms are tired out and I dropped it.”

Mama Jean lowered her spear and looked at the bundle; a stack of books bound with a leather belt. “Why’d you bother with that? Ain’t no one here can read Elvish, and they ain’t letting anything else exist.”

“Gramps said that we used to—”

“Gramps said a whole heap of nonsense. No point in taking any of it serious.”

“Those are proof. I found it right where he said.” The kid tried to cross his arms, but they hung at his sides with elbows bent and refused to move.

Mama Jean leaned in close to him. Her lined face and salt-and-pepper hair placed her age closer to Old Nora than the kid. “You went to the library?” she hissed.

He nodded. “Fourth floor, through the gildy doors. These was in the farthest back shelves.”

Mama grabbed him roughly by the arm, eliciting a sharp cry of pain. “How did you get out of there? Did you lead ’em here? Where are they? We gotta prepare.”

“Same way I got in, Mama; I snuck. They didn’t even know I was there until I left the library, and an alarm went off. I ran all the way to the ’burg, from the other side. Even the hounds couldn’t keep up.”

“You ran seven miles with hounds on you and think you lost ’em?”

“I know I did.”

Mama stepped to center of the space and rang the makeshift bell. “Hounds coming! Hounds coming!”

Old Nora herded the children to the back of the space behind a cement wall. Adults grabbed their weapons — spears, clubs, whatever came to hand — and shields made from old street signs.

The shields were arranged in a semi-circle around the one entrance to the enclave. They had no way to lock the door, and no chance against the hounds, but they’d make them pay for every person they took down.

The kid opened the book on the top of the stack; the one he’d been holding closest to his body. It was in English…and Gramps had taught him how to read that.

The book opened to the page that he had first seen, the binding broken in such a way that it wanted to open there. He wasn’t sure he had enough control of his arms yet, but he gave it a shot.

The hand positions were tunnel-rat signs for “shield” on the right and “wall” on the left. Gramps had said that tunnel-rat sign used to be magic in the before time, and when he’d seen this page, he’d known Gramps was right.

His hands in the proper position, he began moving his arms in circles. He heard them coming. The unmistakable baying call of the hounds.

As he chanted the words on the page, the door blew down in an explosion of concrete and steel. Immediately behind the debris followed a hail of bullets from the hounds.

All of it stopped in midair a few feet from the shield-bearers. The kid continued circling his arms and chanting as the hounds threw themselves at the magic barrier, doing nothing more than knocking down the debris and flattened bullets that peppered it.

As he kept it up, he heard Old Nora laughing, and falling into another coughing fit. Mama ran back to the table and flipped through the book. Finding what she was looking for, she called out instructions to the kid.

He made the signs, moved his arms in the way she’d described, and called out the single word, “blast!”

A shimmer like heatwaves off hot pavement flew from his hands to the shield. The shield held, and the shimmer passed through, turning into a massive blast wave in the middle of the hounds.

Their armor did them no good; the concussive force shattering bones, crushing organs, and rattling their brains in their wolf-like heads. Two dozen hounds, the elite of the elves’ protective force, lay dead in the entrance to the squat and the tunnel beyond.

The sound of cheers rose from the defenders, fading as exhaustion overtook him and he collapsed into darkness. His last thought before he fell to the floor was that he wished Gramps had been around to see that he was right: humans had magic, too.

Trunk Stories

2 Years, 1 Month, 17 Days

prompt: Write a story about someone who finds someone’s diary, and tries to reunite it with its owner. It’s up to you whether they read it or not!

available at Reedsy

It had been two years, one month, and seventeen days since Syllah had left. I never did figure out what came over her. She’d become bitter, sarcastic, and cold, but I tried to work it out. It was as if she was trying to drive me away.

She left, though, while I was at work. Just cleared out all her things and was gone with only a text message that said, “I’m gone, don’t worry about me.” I was left wondering if I’d done something wrong, or maybe she’d gotten bored of me.

My friends had tried to dissuade me from getting involved with her in the first place. They said she wasn’t “right for” me. I figured out quickly that they were racists and found new friends that had no problem with me marrying an orc.

We celebrated our fourth anniversary shortly before she started to change. I still remember what she wore that night; a sexy, red, slit-leg sheath dress and stiletto heels that made her a foot and a half taller than me.

We danced…well I did the best I could, she moved like grace wrapped in dusky muscle. We ended the night with her carrying me home. I’d never felt so safe and loved. Despite the jeers of the assholes who called out to us on the street that night, I did not feel like less of a man for it.

It was only a couple weeks later that she began to change. Her mood swung from apathetic to the edge of rage to deep depression and back. No matter how much I tried to get her to talk about it with me or a friend or a professional she pushed back.

I tried to make it clear that no matter what was going on, I’d be there for her. I don’t think she was used to having anyone offer to watch out for her, as that’s the role she played not just with me, but with her friends as well. She was the guard / soldier / warrior that kept those she cared about safe.

I don’t know what it was about day 777 since she’d left, but it was the day I decided to finally clean out her nightstand. It had sat there, untouched by me, except to be dusted. I just couldn’t bring myself to open it and see the empty drawers as I had in her dresser.

The drawers weren’t empty, though. The top drawer held pictures of us over the years, arranged almost as a shrine. On top of them was a torn piece of paper on which she’d scrawled, “I’m sorry.”

I gathered the photos and laid them out on the bed. There at the end was a photo of us from our fourth anniversary, with her laughing and holding me up by the armpits for a kiss. I remember the bartender taking that and sending it to her phone.

The top drawer empty, and no other pieces of paper or clues of any kind, I dried my face and opened the bottom drawer. The photo printer, along with its charger, sat atop a small book I’d never seen.

We’d had an agreement that anything in our nightstand was completely off-limits for the other. It wasn’t about not trusting each other so much as having a safe place to hide surprise gifts.

The book was one of those that comes with blank pages for use as a diary or sketchbook or recipe book or whatever. I opened it to the first page, and realized it was a diary.

I could read it, maybe figure out what I did wrong, or leave it. For the moment, I put it down and lay on the bed to cry. I didn’t want to betray her trust, but I had to know what changed.

When I felt cried out, I rose, took a shower, dressed in my pajamas, and checked the time. It was only five PM, but no matter. I stared in the fridge for a bit but nothing sounded good except a beer, so beer for dinner it was.

As I sat staring at the blank, powered off TV, I could feel my resolve crumbling. Is it really betraying her trust, I asked myself, if she’s been gone so long without a word? Not even her friends have heard from her.

After calling all her friends for a couple months, I’d called her mother…once. She never approved of me to begin with and let me know in no uncertain terms that she still felt the same. Then she said she hadn’t seen her since she “ran off to play with a weakling.”

I couldn’t take it any longer. The diary was right there, and it might have the answer. I flipped to the last page with writing and read the entry.

“Jonah, I know you’ll read this at some point. Even you don’t have an iron will when curiosity strikes. I just hope you wait long enough that it doesn’t hurt anymore.

“My last happy memory was our anniversary dinner. You helped me forget what I’d found out the Monday before. I’m not sure how long I have, but you shouldn’t have to watch me fade away.

“I tried to make you hate me or resent me or at least get tired of me, but you never wavered. I’m sorry for treating you like that, but you deserve someone that give you a long, happy, active life.

“I always loved you, and when I’m gone, I’ll still watch over you. —Syllah.”

I flipped back a few pages…they were filled with despair that she was hurting me, and I wasn’t responding the way she expected. Back a few more pages where one word had been written and retraced multiple times with a heavy hand and circled again and again: “Stonelitz.”

I knew that it was a disease but didn’t know much about it. I jumped online and looked it up. Stonelitz Disease affects only orcs and trolls and is a recessive genetic disease that begins to show symptoms of muscle cramping in the mid to late twenties. The disease caused muscle loss followed by slow paralysis beginning at the fingers and toes, and progressing until eventually the diaphragm is paralyzed and the patient is either placed on ventilation or dies.

The period from onset to full paralysis ranges from one to fifteen years, depending on other genetic factors and treatments.

I knew, if she hid that from me and her friends, the only person she could share it with is her mother. I screwed up my courage and called her again.

“Reba…Ms. Grumash,” I said when she answered, “I know that Syllah has Stonelitz disease. Is she there?”

“What’s it to you?”

“Can I talk to her, please?”

She hung up on me. Okay, Reba’s is only a two-hour drive, I can be there by eight. I had a beer, am I okay to drive? Wait…I’m in my pajamas and I haven’t eaten anything today. I can eat, get dressed, have some coffee and be there by nine.

When I pulled up to her mother’s house, I saw her old Bronco sitting in the driveway with a For Sale sign on it. I hoped it wasn’t too late. She’d had that bucket since high school and had done every bit of work on it herself. I couldn’t imagine her selling it.

Clutching the diary, I pounded on the door. Reba opened the door, took one look at me, backhanded me off the porch and slammed the door.

I checked that my jaw was still in one piece and no missing teeth and pulled myself up. She hadn’t locked the door, and I could hear her swearing about me in the front room.

I ran to the door, let myself in, threw the diary at her, and ran to the hallway. “Syllah!” I called.

I found her room at the same time Reba caught up to me. “What do you think you’re doing?” she asked. “You only called once and gave up, like the weakling you are.”

“Read the diary,” I said.

I stepped into Syllah’s room and shut the door behind me. She was wearing one of my hoodies. Where it used to fit her snugly it now draped off her shoulders. Her back was to me as she sat staring out the window.

“Go away, Jonah,” she said, a hitch in her voice.

“No.”

She turned toward me, gaunt, the last two fingers of her left hand stuck in a claw-like position. “You don’t get to come here and feel sorry for me. You’re supposed to be living your life with someone who makes you happy.”

“One: you make me happy. Two: I don’t feel sorry for you. You tried to make me hate you,” I said, holding back tears as my face burned, “but I didn’t. I wanted to…it would’ve been easier. Instead, I spent every waking moment wondering what I did wrong.”

“Nothing,” she said, her head hanging low. “Nothing. You shouldn’t be here. It’s not fair to you. You shouldn’t have to live through this.”

“I decide what I will and won’t live through,” I said. “You don’t get to make that choice for me!” I took a deep breath, relaxing my hands that had curled into fists. “I’m here, and I’m not going away without you.”

“You don’t understand. You should go. I didn’t want you to see me like this. I don’t need you here. You deserve better.”

I deserve? What about what you deserve?”  I knelt in front of the chair she sat in and fixed her gaze with my own. “I’ve been lucky to have you in my life, and I’ve been miserable without you. But if you can convince me that you’re happier with me gone…then I’ll go.”

She tried to turn away from me, but from my vantage point I could see the tears rolling down her face.

“You say you don’t need me here. Are you happier without me, Syllah?”

“No.”

“Then I’m not going without you. Do you have a doctor here you like better than Doc Swanson?”

She nodded. “Specialist.”

“I can work from anywhere. Your mom’s just gonna have to deal with me staying here until I find a place for us.”

She looked up at me and reached for my jaw. “What…?”

“Reba.”

Syllah sighed. “I need to lay down,” she said.

I stood, and she tried but started to tumble. I caught her and held her up, helping her get to the bed.

“You don’t have to—”

“Shush, woman. You’ve taken care of me since high school; it’s my turn to take care of you.” I let out a short laugh as I helped her lie down. “You’re lighter than me, now, so there.”

I hadn’t realized Reba had entered the room. How someone with her bulk could move so silently I couldn’t fathom. She handed the diary to Syllah. “Brat of a child,” she said, “you didn’t tell him. I thought he was just being a human weakling. When did you find out, boy?”

“About four hours ago.”

“And you came right here?”

“After you hung up on me, and I sobered myself up.”

Reba lifted my chin with a gentle touch, looked at my jaw, and tutted. “That’s gonna bruise. Sorry, boy, I thought you knew all along. You sure it ain’t broken?”

“Pretty sure.”

“Tougher than you look.”

I turned back to Syllah who, despite her diminished state was staring daggers at her mother. “Why are you selling your Bronco?”

“Can’t drive. Right foot’s mostly paralyzed.”

“I’ll sell my Acura, and we’ll keep your Bronco. I know how much you love it.”

“You just want to drive it.”

“Always have wanted to. Will you finally let me?” I asked.

She grabbed my hand. “Yeah, after you sell your Acura and buy me a tricked-out wheelchair. I’ll need it soon.”

“Deal.” I looked back at Reba. “It’s late and I need to start bringing my things over tomorrow. Where can I sleep?”

Syllah squeezed my hand. “Right here, idiot.”

Reba cleared her throat, saw the look on Syllah’s face, and said, “Yeah…uh…right there…with your wife. Don’t be a dummy.”

She left the room and closed the door behind her. Syllah’s eyebrows rose. “I think she just gave us her blessing…finally.”

“If I knew all it took was getting knocked off the porch, I would’ve done it a long time ago.”

“Come to bed, Jonah. We’ll talk more in the morning.”

For the first time in two years, one month, and seventeen days, I slept a deep and restful sleep.

Trunk Stories

According to the God of Plans

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

available at Reedsy

“You finally chose a hero?”

– “Yes, see? There she goes now.”

“A human?”

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

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

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

“If you say so.”

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

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

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

“Oh, she’s praying. Let’s listen in.”

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

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

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

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

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

“We’ll see, second-favorite sister.”

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

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

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

“Are you sure about that?”

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

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

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

“What? She’ll what?”

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

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

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

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

– “Yes.”

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

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

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

– “She’s interested in a woman?”

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

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

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

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

“You think so?”

– “You’ll see.”

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

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

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

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

“What are you doing now?”

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

“Heh. Good luck.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“If you say so.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Money, I think.”

– “Wait, what is she doing now?”

“I think she just volunteered.”

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

“Yes.”

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

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

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

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

– “Sure.”

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

– “See?”

“Shh!”

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

“I—I’m…trying…not…to…laugh….”

– “Shut up.”

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

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

“I don’t think so sister.”

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

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

– “But why?”

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

Trunk Stories

The Last Moon

prompt: Write a story about a fox spirit (a gumiho, jiǔwěihú, kitsune, or hồ ly tinh), inspired by, e.g. Korean, Chinese, Japanese and Vietnamese folklore.

available at Reedsy

When I first met her, she was pale, emaciated, yet her smile was warm. She was dressed in a loose robe-like gown that showed the sharp angles of her joints when she moved. She carried a bundle of flowers she attempted to sell to everyone who passed by.

There was something in her golden eyes that was both desperate and crafty, wild and careful. I watched for a short time, as she failed to sell a single flower, before I approached.

“How much are the flowers?” I asked.

“Whatever you feel is fair,” she said.

I opened my wallet, pulled out a fifty, and handed it to her. “I’ll take all of them.”

“Oh, kamsahamnida,” she said with a bow. “It is too much, sir. I have no change.”

“Instead of change, will you join me for dinner?”

“Wha—why?”

“There’s something interesting about you, and I’d like to know more. Besides, you’ve sold all your flowers. Do you have any other plans?”

“I…no,” she said with a bow, “I have no other plans.”

“You don’t have to bow to me. I’m Alex Watts, by the way.”

“Kim Soon-ja…I mean, um, Soon-ja Kim.”

“Still getting used to the switched around name order? That’s ok, Kim Soon-ja. Would it be okay if I called you Soon-ja?”

“I…uh, yes, that would be okay Alex Watts.”

“Please, just call me Alex.”

“Ne, Alex.”

“No? Oh, right, ne means yes in Korean. I’ve watched enough Korean movies and shows I should know that by now, even if I can’t pronounce it quite right.” I gestured down the road toward the area where the restaurants were. “Shall we?”

The area where the restaurants clustered was beginning to fill up with the early dinner crowd. “What sounds good?” I asked. “Steak? Sushi? Pizza?”

“No meat,” she said.

“You’re in luck. There’s a new vegan Asian-fusion joint down the way, and no crowd.” I led her there, hoping the food would be edible and not some meat-free, gluten-free, taste-free crap.

To my surprise, the smell on walking in was heavenly. Garlic, herbs, spices, and some undefined, heady scent that made my mouth water. “Looks like a good spot.”

We took our seats and were given water and menus.

Soon-ja glanced at her menu and set it down.

“Would you like me to read the menu to you?” I asked.

“Please.”

I moved around the table to sit next to her and began reading the menu. The pad Thai sounded like a good choice to me, but as soon as I read kimbap, she brightened.

“Oh, kimbap, please. And kimchi if they have it.” She pronounced the k’s somewhere between an English k and g.

I started to rise in order to move to the other side of the table, and she put her hand on my arm. “Stay, please?”

“Of course.”

Her eyes shone with tears as she tried the kimchi. She began to eat her kimbap, popping each large piece in her mouth in a single bite and savoring it. She leaned against me. “I miss my home,” she said, popping another slice of kimbap in her mouth.

“What brought you to the states?” I asked.

“A plane.”

I chuckled. “Right. I mean, why did you decide to come to the states?”

“I am trying to find a relic that was stolen from the spring shrine I guard.”

“A Buddhist shrine?”

“No, older than that,” she said. “The spring is the home of a water spirit, and the relic is meant to keep it safe. Now, no one visits the temple.”

“That sounds like a lonely existence.”

“It is the life I chose. You are still right, Alex Watts, it is lonely, but not for much longer. My trial is near an end.”

“Trial?”

“If I told you, you would think I am crazy.”

“Try me.”

“To cease being a kumiho, I must go a hundred years without meat, restore the temple, and discover what it means to love and be loved by a human.”

I thought about my words with care. It wouldn’t do to confirm her suspicion about what I might think, but she might need help. “You say human, why is that?”

“Kumiho,” she said, pointing at herself.

I let it go. “A hundred years? So, your whole life?”

She laughed, that warm smile spreading again. Something dangerous flashed behind her eyes as she leaned close and looked in my eyes. “I am two thousand years already. Do not tell anyone.”

I nodded and mumbled a promise. I was certain that she needed help, but I couldn’t force it on her. The best I could do was to be a friend, and if the opportunity arose, I could suggest, gently, some counseling.

I had finished my pad Thai and she had nearly finished her kimbap. “Do you have any hints about where the relic is?”

“It is in an antique shop. I am trying to make enough money to buy it back.”

“Can I help?”

“No. You do not even know me.”

“Well, Soon-ja, I would like to know you. Do you have a phone?”

“Ne.” She pulled a phone out of her robe that seemed to have hidden pockets everywhere. “A kind woman gave it to me on my first day here. She was a Christian nun, I think. She also gave me a bible in Hangul script.”

I added my name and number to her phone. “If you like, you can call me whenever.”

She looked at the number and name, and entered the name in Hangul as well, “아렣큿”.

“Kamsahamnida, Alex Watts.”

“You’re very welcome, Kim Soon-ja. I hope you call soon.”

A few days later, she called. We spent a long afternoon in the park, where she explained all the spirits of the stones, trees, plants, animals, and the pond. Her English seemed to have improved in a dramatic fashion.

She captivated me with her explanations of how the spirits lived, communicated, and made themselves known. Then she looked at the runners passing through the park on the trail.

“The runners,” she said, “are so focused on the physical world that they’ve ignored their spirit. It’s been beaten down to an ash. Not like you. Your spirit is still rich and alive.”

“What makes you say that?”

“I knew it when you first approached me. You shine with a warm aura. That’s how I knew I could trust you.”

“Thanks for thinking so highly of me,” I said, “but really, I’m just trying to be a friend to someone who seemed in need of one.”

“Exactly what I would expect you to say.”

“Your English was good before, but you’ve improved a lot in the last few days. What’s your secret?”

“Immersion. When we met, I’d only been here a week. I learned to read English yesterday, too, so you won’t have to read menus to me.” She watched the geese on the pond. “I mean, if we were ever somewhere with a menu again.”

“You seemed to be homesick when I met you. That’s a short time in which to feel such longing.”

“I’ve been traveling for two years now, tracking down the relic. It’s a relief to be so close.” Her eyes held the expression of a caged animal looking out to the wilderness.

“Did you sell flowers today?” I asked, changing the subject.

“Yes. The wild roses have started to bloom, and they are popular. They’re not real wild roses, though. They’re hybrids that birds have seeded in the wilderness. I found twenty-four and sold them all.”

“Nice. How much did you make?”

“Twelve dollars.”

“Soon-ja, that’s not enough. You could charge a lot more.”

She put her hand on my arm. “I know you’re concerned about me, but I will do things my way. In two more moons I will have enough to buy the relic and will have fulfilled my meat fast.”

“What does the relic look like?” I knew there were a limited number of antiques shops in the area, and there was something about her that made want to help.

That dangerous flash showed behind her eyes again. “If I tell you, you’ll go find it and buy it for me. I know you want to help, Alex Watts, but it can’t be rushed.”

I nodded. “Okay, Kim Soon-ja. I defer to your wishes.”

“Thank you.” Her eyes turned warm again.

The next few weeks passed in a blur. We got to the point where I was spending every waking minute I could with her. She wouldn’t let me buy out her flowers, but she would let me stand with her and talk while she sold them.

I took her out to eat several more times, and even dancing one night. It seemed like she always wore the same outfit, but I figured it must be several identical outfits, since it was always immaculate when we met up, even when the last time I’d seen her the previous day she had grass stains from rolling around in the park. We only did that a couple times…well, maybe four or five times…but it was worth it to hear her laughter.

It was early on a Saturday morning that she called. She sounded nervous. “Alex, come with me to get my relic back?”

“Sure. What time and where should I meet you?”

“Now. I’m waiting at your door.”

I’d told her where I lived when she’d asked weeks earlier but hadn’t expected her to show up. “I—I’ll get dressed and be right out.”

We took a cab to the edge of the city where a rundown antiques store offered questionable goods amidst the graffiti on the surrounding buildings. I followed her in, and she went straight to the back of the store and lifted a small stone sculpture of a fox.

She carried it gently to the counter and set it down with care before counting out three-hundred dollars. The man behind the counter looked at the relic, and at Soon-ja.

“Maybe I shouldn’t sell this,” he said, reaching for it.

Soon-ja growled an inhuman sound, and her eyes flashed something feral and frightening. For a moment, I thought I saw fangs. He must have seen it too, as he recoiled back and put his hands up. “Just joking,” he said.

He snatched the money and counted it, before putting a fifty back on the counter. “Since you like it so much, I—I’ll give you a discount.”

She ignored the fifty and cradled the relic. I picked up her change and led her out of the store. Once we were back in the full light of day, she seemed to calm down. “Thank you. If you hadn’t been by my side, I might have done something I regret,” she said.

I called for a cab. “Where are you staying? I wouldn’t want you to lose that now that you have it.”

“If you could just take me to the airport,” she said, “I will fly back to Seoul tonight and return to my temple tomorrow. The last full moon I must endure is almost here, so this needs to be returned by then.”

I stared at her, gape-mouthed. “You—you’re leaving, just like that?”

“I must,” she said, tears beginning to roll down her cheeks. If I don’t restore the temple before the full moon, the last hundred years have been wasted, and I’ll get no further chances.”

“What about your luggage? Anything to pick up?”

“Everything I own is what you see,” she said.

I’d decided before I realized it. “I need to swing by my place first, pack an overnight bag, and grab my passport. I’ll try for a tourist e-visa on the way to the airport.”

“It…hurts,” she said, clutching her stomach. “The thought that I have to leave you hurts down here.”

“It hurts me too,” I said, “which is why I’m going to try my damndest to go with you.”

We got to the airport with plenty of time to spare, but her flight was full. My e-visa was approved, so I booked the next available seat on a flight to Incheon Airport in Seoul.

“I’ll wait for you there,” she said.

“It’ll be twelve hours. I don’t want you to be late to your temple. You could give me directions and I’ll meet you there.”

She brushed a light hand on my cheek. “I won’t be late. I have the whole day. I’ll wait for you.”

I smiled. “Thank you.”

As my flight took off, I estimated hers was landing or had just landed. The separation from her felt immense. There were a couple days every few weeks where she’d been too busy to meet up, but even then, it didn’t feel so insurmountable.

It surprised me to be awakened by the flight attendant to prepare for landing. The soda I’d gotten just after lift-off was still there, watered down by the melted ice. I gulped down the flat, tepid drink, put the empty cup in the trash bag she carried, and raised the tray.

After customs, I stepped out into the main atrium, and my heart sank. This made LAX seem quaint. There was no way I’d find her here.

I took out my phone and turned it on. No connection. I’d need a Korean SIM card for that, and my number would be different. At a loss as to where to go, I went outside to the taxi stand.

She appeared out of the crowd and rushed toward me to give me a hug. “I knew you’d find me,” she said.

“I think you found me. I feel a little lost.”

“Let’s go. I’ll show you my temple.” She led me into a cab and had a long discussion with the driver before we took off.

Soon-ja took my hand. She took my focus so completely that it felt like only minutes before the taxi stopped next to a footpath on the dirt road that disappeared over the horizon toward the city.

Holding hands, we walked down the footpath for almost an hour, the late afternoon sun settling lower on the horizon.

I could hear the burbling of a stream nearby, and she stopped. The path wavered in front of me, the trees disappeared, and we stood in a clearing where a small shrine sat next a large spring.

The energy of the place was overwhelming, and it felt like Soon-ja’s hug, only bigger.

With great reverence, she placed the stone fox on a small shelf in the shrine and let out a huge sigh. Her back was still toward me, but I could tell she was tense.

“What is it, Soon-ja? What’s wrong?”

“The full moon. It comes tonight, the last part of the test.”

“I’m here for you,” I said. I looked at the cot in the corner of the shrine. “If it’s not okay for me to sleep here, I can sleep on the path and wait for morning. Whatever you prefer.”

“No. You must sleep here.” She pointed at the bed.

“Where will you sleep?” I asked.

“I will not sleep tonight.”

“If you’re sure.”

“I am sure, Alex Watts.” She pulled a band of cloth out from beneath the bed. “You must not take this off tonight. You must not look at me again before the sun comes up. Promise.”

I figured it had something to do with her thinking she was a kumiho, and it wasn’t time to get into that. “Okay, Soon-ja, I promise.”

She tied the blindfold and I lay down on the cot. I heard her washing in the spring, and I felt the night grow cool around me. Then all was silent.

The pad of small feet, the snuffling of a dog, a whimper, the scent of musk on the air. I felt the air as a dog-like nose sniffed at my hand, then the warm, wet nose nudged my hand up.

I petted gently, the animal pulling closer and making a purring, whining sound. The pointed ears and soft fur felt foxlike, but it was too large to be a fox. The animal squeezed onto the cot, laying partly on top of me, and licked my face. It whimpered again.

I don’t know how I knew, but I did. “Shh, Soon-ja,” I said, “I’m here.” I petted her fur from nose to the many tails she had. “I’m here, and I’m not going to run away.” I felt awful for having doubted her.

She calmed, making a purring-like sound.

“I bet you’re beautiful like this. I wish I could see you.”

She whimpered and placed a paw on the blindfold. “I’m not going to look. I promised.”

I began to drift off, her warm weight and soft fur putting me to sleep. I had to say something before the moment was gone, though. “You know I’m in love with you, right?”

She licked my cheek once and then settled back down.

The sun felt warm on my skin in the morning, and I heard Soon-ja in the spring. I sat up without removing the blindfold.

“You can take it off now,” she said.

I took it off. She stood naked in the spring, fox ears sprouting from her head, and nine fox tails swirling behind her. “You—you’re beautiful. But…this must mean it didn’t work.”

“It worked,” she said. “It’s fading now, and I wanted to show you who I was before it was all gone.”

“You’re sure it worked?”

“I’m sure. The water’s cold! It’s wonderful.” She waved me in. “You should join me.”

I joined her for a quick wash, the water was cold, then we lay out in the sun to dry off and warm up. “Will you still guard the shrine?”

“No, I’m a human now, so I have to leave when my tails disappear.”

“Where will you go?” I asked.

“Anywhere you are,” she answered.

Trunk Stories

Cups and Balls

prompt: Write a story entirely of dialogue. Nothing but dialogue. No attributives (he said, she said, etc.). No descriptions of scenes or gestures or movements (unless these things are presented in the dialogue). Just words between quotation marks. Pure, beautiful, untainted dialogue.

available at Reedsy

“I’m knackered. Glad that’s over.”

– “You? All you did was sell me out, you Judas. I had to do all the work.”

“I’m terribly sorry. I thought he was another tourist. I have a hard time getting simple directions in this city, and I speak English.”

– “Yeah, we’ve all heard it…New York sucks and everybody’s awful.”

“When I saw a tall bloke in cosplay trying to get anyone to acknowledge him, I stopped to see if I could help. He just said, ‘Show me magic,’ so I thought he was looking for a street performer.”

– “You thought that was cosplay?”

“At first, yes.”

– “And you talked to a freak that looked like that?”

“Yes. Why wouldn’t I have done?”

– “This ain’t London, darlin’. He coulda drug you off to an alley, and a thousand people would walk by without noticing a thing.”

“What makes you think London’s so different?”

– “I’ve performed there. Cameras everywhere. At least there you have the chance that cops are looking at the right time.”

“I wasn’t trying to involve you in anything other than entertaining another tourist. I really am sorry.”

– “You couldn’t tell how creepy he was?”

“No, he just seemed lost.”

– “Darlin’ you’s in the wrong city to have a busted creep meter. That guy set me off right away.”

“You really think someone could abduct me in broad daylight, on a crowded pavement, and no one would say anything?”

– “We disappeared from here, what, ten hours ago? And we reappeared a few minutes ago. Has anyone even looked our direction?”

“They all seem to be actively looking any other direction than this.”

– “Exactly. I need a drink. My nerves are shot.”

“I agree.”

– “Cups and balls…I can’t believe that worked.”

“You what?!”

– “What?”

“You didn’t think it would work?”

– “I didn’t have time to think past, ‘Oh, it’s that cute Brit tourist girl again, with a tall, creepy dude.’ Besides, that ain’t the point.”

“What is the point?”

– “It worked. They ain’t gonna make us slaves…yet.”

“Yet.”

– “The science types have a thousand years to figure out this magic doohickey before they come back. Maybe we’ll get real magic.”

“In your act you said magic was all make-believe.”

– “Well, I thought it was.”

“What changed your mind?”

– “How about when a big-ass space elf froze us in place and teleported us to his ship?”

“Space elf?”

– “Come on, you were thinking it.”

“I was thinking bloody Romulan, or Vulcan, but I guess that works too.”

– “You watch too much TV.”

“Maybe. I agree that I believe it’s real now, but for you, why magic? Couldn’t it just be advanced technology?”

– “Could be. But they really hammered on the whole magic thing. What convinced you?”

“The entire time on their ship I could…feel it? I don’t know how to describe it.”

– “I didn’t feel anything except scared that I’d mess up and they’d eat us or something.”

“Bloody hell. We’ve got a thousand years to arm ourselves against Vulcans with magic and faster-than-light transport.”

– “They ain’t all that scary when you think about it.”

“What makes you say that?”

– “They say they can do magic, and magic is the only true test of sentience—”

“Sapience, they said, not sentience.”

– “Yeah, whatever. But they ain’t all that bright. Hell, any grown-up with common sense would tell you that what I do is illusions and sleight of hand, even if they don’t know how I did it.”

“True, but you are quite good at it.”

– “Ouch. I know what that means in British English. I spent some time in London, remember? Then again, you ain’t wrong.”

“Oh! I meant ‘quite’ in the American sense.”

– “Sure you did. Space elves with real magic are convinced that humans have magic because a mediocre street magician — me — did every trick I knew, and even flubbed a couple when I was getting tired. If they paid attention, they woulda caught the palm a couple times.”

“I was watching closely. You had me fooled when I stopped by the first time, and then the whole time on their ship. I still don’t know how you do any of it.”

– “I could teach you some simple tricks, if you’re up for it.”

“You’d do that?”

– “Yeah. I can teach you the cups and balls to start.”

“That would be lovely. I’d have something to show off when I get home.”

– “Here, hold this thing while I set up for it.”

“What should we do with—hey!”

– “It…turned on.”

“I didn’t do anything. I’m just holding it.”

– “Hand it back.”

“And it’s off again.”

– “Touch it.”

“Wow.”

– “Ouch! Take it or let go, it hurts!”

“Sorry, sorry.”

– “It’s not hurting you?”

“No, it feels like it did on their ship.”

– “Wait, you get magic, and I don’t? Life is so unfair.”

“It’s not my fault, really.”

– “I didn’t say it was. Anyway, let me set up the cups and balls with clear cups so you can see how it’s done.”

“So, there’s already balls there?”

– “Of course. The rest is manipulation. I’ll go slow for you, then you can try.”

“Now that I see it, it’s so simple. Not easy, mind you, but simple nonetheless. Surprising that this was the one that sealed the deal.”

– “Like I said, they ain’t that bright. I know you knew all along it was sleight of hand, even though you didn’t know how, right?”

“Of course. This thing, though….”

– “Can you make that thing do anything other than light up?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I can—bloody hell!”

– “You, uh, just blew up the bus stop.”

“I didn’t mean to, I just wanted to make a light over there. Please, take this back.”

– “It turns off again. Hey, there’s a thousand years to get ready. Would it really be so bad if you took some time to learn how to use this thing, and then we won a bunch of money on that magician show?”

“It would. This should go to researchers right away.”

– “Eh, you’re probably right.”

“Perhaps we should leave. It sounds like the sirens are getting closer.”

– “Shit. Help my pack up my table.”

“I think it’s too late for that. There are chaps in hazmat suits coming from both directions. And you said no one notices anything in this city.”

– “Yeah, except at the worst possible time.”

“What should we do with the device?”

– “I don’t think we’ll be given a choice.”

“Oh, bollocks. Before they cart us off, I have to ask about something you said earlier.”

– “Ask away.”

“You called me cute?”

– “I wha—uh…yeah. Yeah, I did.”

“Ellen Chambers, from Croyden, London.”

– “Derrick Little, Augusta Georgia. Ouch! Remind me not to shake your hand when I’m holding the device.”

“I think they want us to set the device down and back away from it.”

– “You should do it, so they can see that it responds to you. Better chance of not disappearing to Guantanamo or something.”

“What about you?”

– “My best tricks are escapes. I’ll be out of cuffs before they notice. If I’m really lucky, they’ll use the zip tie type. I’ll bolt the first chance I get. By the way, I slipped my number in your pocket when you were here the first time.”

“How forward of you. I’ll call the first chance I get. Looks like they want us to separate. For now, we should obey their orders. They got riled when the device lit up. Be safe, Derrick Little of Augusta.”

– “You too, Ellen.”

Trunk Stories

Bleeding Through

prompt: Write a story about a character who is experiencing glitches in their reality.

available at Reedsy

It was there again for just a split second, then it was gone. A flash in the eye; something off-kilter just a bit. I couldn’t tell what it was, but it made me think I might be losing my marbles. If I hadn’t been too nervous to try when it was offered in university, I would blame it on it acid flashbacks.

I pulled my hair into a ponytail and tied it with the spare band I had around my wrist. It served as an excuse to stand outside for a moment longer to gather my wits.

The reception had that sterile, cold, hospital feeling down, complete with the forced smiles of the young people in scrubs checking people in and answering questions. I approached the counter when the young woman there waved me forward.

“Hi. I’m Wendy, how can I help?”

“I have an appointment for an fMRI at three,” I said.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“Celia Andros.”

After confirming my birthdate and address, she gave me a form to fill out while I waited. I filled out the rough outline of my medical history and wondered why I had to do it so often. My entire medical history was tied into this hospital, so they already had this information.

The waits for imaging weren’t like waiting for the doctor. They got me in right at three, had me out of my clothes and in a gown, lying in the machine by fifteen after.

While I was in the machine watching the images they showed on the screen above me, it happened again. The difference was, this wasn’t split-second. While I saw the machine around me, through it I saw the ceiling high above, crumbling. It was like seeing two films at the same time, one bleeding through the other.

There was a button under my thumb that I was to push if I noticed anything odd. I pushed it, I think. At least, I told myself to. Just as details in the ceiling were becoming clear, including the steady drip of black water from the edges of the tiles, the image disappeared and the machine and screen above were once again solid.

The fact that it happened during the fMRI might provide some insight into what was happening. My doctor already told me that I’m too old for the initial onset of something like schizophrenia, so she wanted to rule out a physical cause before doing anything that might exacerbate the situation.

I spent most of the ride home — and most every empty minute after — trying to decide which would be worse; something physical that may kill me any moment or something entirely psychological that would eventually see me sectioned.

Feeling sorry for myself, I stopped at the grocery on the way home for some nibbles. I picked up a large bag of crisps and box of herbal tea with chamomile and valerian. On the spur of the moment, I picked up a fizzy drink and an ice lolly.

The ice lolly and fizzy drink were gone by the time I’d got home. I sat in front of the telly, not paying attention to what was showing. At some point, I roused myself to put on a kettle and open the crisps.

It was between sips of the herbal tea that it happened again. The newsreader was going on about a pile-up on the M1, complete with live coverage of the traffic jam. I saw, behind the image or through it, the same stretch of the M1 broken, part of it jutting up as though the land had been lifted. A lorry lay across the change in elevation, burning.

The image faded after a few seconds and the story changed to one about some MP caught up in some ethics scandal…as if that was a news-worthy occurrence.

I continued to munch on the crisps, letting the sound from the telly fade to background noise. After a second cup of the herbal tea, I was tired enough to sleep.

Over the next few days, the episodes became more common and far more vivid. The scenes that showed beneath the everyday were all of destruction. Why that should be, I don’t know.

I walked to the corner shop, and it happened again. The shop entrance was elevated from the pavement, as though it was built on a kerb. I nearly tripped as I tried to step up into the shop. Then I realized that in addition to being lifted twenty centimeters or so, the shop I was seeing was in a state of total disarray.

To avoid the stare of the man behind the counter, I turned down one of the aisles and waited for the episode to end. When it ended, I still had after-impressions. It was as though some traumatic event had burned it into my brain.

I shook it off and picked up a fizzy drink and ice lolly. It was as I was paying for my purchases that I realized I didn’t know why I’d gone to the shop in the first place. Probably boredom combined with the stress of waiting for my doctor to call me in about the scan.

The call from my doctor came as I was heading home. She wanted to see me in her office first thing in the morning. She talked as if it wasn’t anything to be concerned about, but I wasn’t certain I believed her tone.

I sat in her office after a sleepless night. I was still undecided whether a physical or psychological cause was worse. She caught my wandering attention.

“Sorry, Doctor Mathis.”

“Celia, you can relax,” she said, “and please, just call me Sharon. We haven’t found a physical cause for your hallucinations. To start with, I’m going to put you on an anti-psychotic to see if we can get it under control.”

I nodded, realizing now that it was the worse outcome of the two. At least if it had been physical, it would be something I could point to and blame.

“Why don’t you tell me what you’ve been seeing. We can decide from there if we should involve the psychiatry department.”

I explained how the brief, vague flashes had morphed into views of destruction. I made sure to provide the vivid details of the latest episodes. It was then that another hit me. The doctor was both in front of me, and huddled beneath the desk, upon which the ceiling had collapsed, trapping her there.

Looking up, I could see the floor above on fire. Water sprayed from unseen fire hoses outside, washing ash down with it, turning it black. It took over, more real seeming than reality, as if reality was the bit bleeding through. As suddenly as it started, it stopped.

“Celia, are you well?” she asked. “Did you just have another episode?”

“I…did. It looked so real. You were trapped beneath your desk with the ceiling collapsed all around. The floor above was on fire, and water was spraying on it from outside.”

She just nodded and jotted it down in her notes. “You’re not having any thoughts of harming yourself or others, are you?”

“No, it just…it’s like I’m seeing another reality behind this one, or maybe another time.” I laughed at myself. “Sorry, Doctor M—Sharon…now I sound daft.”

“It’s fine, Celia. Promise you’ll pop by the chemist on the way home and get this filled. One tablet every night before bedtime. Don’t expect it to work right away, it needs to build up. And don’t skip any doses. I’ll set a follow-up appointment for two weeks from today.”

I nodded at her, took the prescription she’d written, and walked out. Anti-psychotics. I’ve gone ’round the bend, I thought, and I’ll be sectioned before year’s end.

As I’d promised, I took a detour to the chemist on the way home. It was only one stop earlier than my usual, so it wasn’t much of a detour.

Medicine in hand, I walked toward home. I had finished the big bag of crisps the day prior, so I decided to pop into the corner shop to get some more. Fried potato therapy.

A low, rumbling noise, like a train, came barreling toward me. The light poles began to sway, and the ground started to shake. Unable to stand, I dropped to my knees. The ground next to me, where the buildings abutted the pavement, rose with a deafening roar.

A few seconds after it started, it was over. Sirens called out from all over the city, and the streets were littered with collapsed brickwork from many of the older buildings.

I went into the shop. I had to step up to get in, and the scene was exactly as I had seen the last time I was there.

The clerk shooed me out and followed. “I’m not sure the roof will hold,” he said, “but I grabbed you an ice lolly on the way out. No charge.”

“You’re very kind.” I opened the lolly and looked down the street to my building. The entire facade was laid out in front of it, and my front room was open to the world. I pointed to it with a bitter laugh. “How do you like my interior-exterior design?”

That night, as I lay on a cot in a Red Cross shelter, I wondered whether to take the pills or not. The scenes from the news, including the upthrust that cut across the M1, the partial collapse and fire at the hospital — all of it — was just as I’d seen.

I tried to call Dr. Mathis, but most of the cell towers were down, and the ones that weren’t were overloaded. I told one of the aid workers to contact the firemen at the hospital and let them know she was trapped beneath her desk, but he just looked at me like I was barmy.

I decided that, for now, the pills could wait until it happened again…if it happened again. With the full realization that I had, somehow, seen into the future, I left the shelter for the hospital. I hoped it wasn’t too late for Dr. Mathis.

Trunk Stories

A Lady Scorned

prompt: Write about someone whose luck is running out.

available at Reedsy

She clapped her leathery wings in rage, her eyes glowing like hot coals. Her champion had not only let her down, he’d flat-out betrayed her. As usual, only her favorite brother was here to comfort her.

“Relax, sister.” Pride placed his arm and one wing around her. “You knew there was a chance to lose, and you took it.”

“Yeah, sure. You can puff yourself up with ‘at least I tried’ but that doesn’t cut it for me; I have to win.”

Pride stood, holding his sister close. “There will be others,” he said.

“He was to be my champion. I thought he was steadfast in his devotion to me.”

“You’re my favorite sister, but I never understood why you chose him in the first place. Born to an addicted mother living in a hovel, with an alcoholic father serving a life sentence.”

“Exactly. And on his first birthday?” She looked at her brother and saw no response. “Do you remember what happened on his first birthday?”

“His mother ODed in her car in the convenience store parking lot, he was in the back seat.”

“Right, but an off-duty police officer happened to be there. One whose brother and sister-in-law were in a uniquely perfect position to take in a child.”

“Because they’d just found out she was barren, right?” Pride raised an eyebrow and pulled her close. “I try to tell people, of all my siblings, Luck is the coldest, but they never believe me. Anyhow, carry on.”

“Right. Well, they were ready to take in and care for a special-needs child; child of a junkie mother and father in jail and all. He was undersize and underweight, but that’s because I was slowing his brain development.”

“What? Why?” Pride released his sister and stepped back.

“He was genetically gifted, but without the proper environment, he’d never reach his full potential. I held him back until he had that environment.”

Luck took a deep breath and let the fire in her eyes calm. “I made sure he had everything he needed: good schools, healthy food, loving parents. I even helped his adoptive father get elected to congress in order to get him to an even better school and ensure his acceptance to MIT at fifteen.”

“And all that time he remained your champion?”

“Always. He attributed his situation and success to me. ‘Luck has been kind to me,’ he’d say.”

“What changed?”

“Dear brother, I don’t know how, but your influence found him. I know you kept your part of the deal and never touched him directly, but….” She let out a heavy sigh and settled into a squat position, elbows on her knees, face on her hands, wings behind her like a gargoyle on a parapet.

“What is it?” Pride asked.

“Why is it easier for the brothers than the sisters? You, Envy, Wrath, Sloth, Lust, all of you. You influence someone a certain way and you gain power. It’s not the same for me and my sisters.”

“Except Love,” he said.

“It seems that way, but she is outright worshipped by millions. No, we need belief…not just influence. Me, Chaos, Order, Fate, Wisdom…well, she does a little better than the rest of us, but of the sisters, only Love truly prospers.”

“Tell me what happened with your champion?” Pride asked. “The one you bet Sloth a hundred years servitude would acknowledge you in an influential speech.”

“He finished out his PhD in Neuroscience, with his thesis, The Role of Ventromedial Pre-Frontal Cortex Excitation in Unconscious Bias and Apophenia. The more he researched, the more he became convinced that his luck was a story he told himself to make sense of accomplishments he didn’t feel deserving of.

“After everything I did for him, everything for which he thanked me and praised me for years, he had the gall to denounce me in the footnotes of his paper. ‘Despite the lies I told myself, there is no such thing as luck. Every accomplishment I’ve made is a combination of my own efforts and my environment. There is no luck, just random, sometimes cruel, chance, as seen through the lens of our own biases. Our own actions determine our luck.’

Pride crouched down next to his sister. “Oof. He gave the credit to himself and Chaos.”

Hot tears streamed down her face. “He did, but he’s about to find out that I’m a lot crueler than my sister. She plays fair; everyone is treated the same and the outcome is equally unsure. Not me.” Luck took a deep breath and rose to her feet, spreading her wings, electricity building in arcs around her.

Pride stood and stepped away from her. “What are you doing?”

“I’m giving every bit of energy he gave me back.” Her eyes were black pits and lightning arced between her teeth as she let out a pained scream.

The mass expulsion of power brought all the siblings to her side. The lives of individual mortals were rarely of any consideration, but this one had to be special to elicit such a response from their usually cold sister.

“What now?” Pride asked.

“We watch and wait…see if he ever comes back to my side.” Luck smiled but it was a mirthless, icy thing. “Even believing in bad luck is believing in me.”

The siblings watched as the man who had lived a charmed life faced a change in circumstance. His fiancé left him stranded at the altar, leading him to drinks with his closest friend.

It was the first time he’d ever gotten drunk, and as gifted as he was genetically, he was just as cursed with a proclivity to addiction. It took months, but he entered a downward spiral. Alcohol took his job, then his possessions, then his home.

Even as he ended up sleeping under a bridge because he couldn’t be bothered to stay sober long enough to sleep in the shelter, he continued to attribute everything to himself. He knew that he had a high likelihood of addictive tendencies, yet he allowed himself to repeatedly drink until he was drunk to dull the pain of rejection.

His clothes wore thin, and he warmed himself by a barrel of burning garbage. An early winter storm had come in mid-autumn and marked the beginning of a brutal winter. There were no warm places left to sleep.

The people he considered his “friends,” the ones that helped keep him drunk, had sobered enough to get into the shelter, filling it to capacity. There were a few people still sleeping in tents with warm sleeping bags, but they wouldn’t allow him anywhere near them. He didn’t blame them. He clung to the belief that everything that happened to him, good and bad, was a direct result of his own choices.

The winter remained harsh, and his body began to show signs of failing. Thanks to not having anywhere left to panhandle, he had been sober for nearly a week when he built himself a nest under a bridge.

As he lay there shivering, he came to the realization that he had wasted his life. He hadn’t published anything since his doctoral thesis. He’d barely begun working in his field when he let himself be taken down by one negative event.

“It’s not all my fault,” he said to the bridge above him. “Sure, the drinking, or at least the starting drinking. I need to get help. But what started it all?”

He curled into a ball, still shivering. “She got cold feet at the worst possible time, but I didn’t do that. Now I’m shivering, probably hypothermia, I’ll be dead by morning. I used to have such good luck, right up until I decided there was no such thing. I guess my luck now is to freeze to death. You’re a bitch, Lady Luck, even if I deserve it.”

She folded her wings, the electrical crackling around her fading to nothing. Her eyes brightened and her stance relaxed. She looked around to see that only Pride remained by her side, her other siblings having grown weary of her tantrum. “He’s back,” she said.

“Not for long,” Pride said.

Luck twitched a finger, and a patrol officer turned on her search light and pointed it under the bridge on a whim, illuminating his huddled form. “Fate says as long as I intervene, he’s got years,” she said, “but he has no more chances with me. Any day he doesn’t acknowledge my presence, I won’t be there. If he ever betrays me again, I’ll end him then and there.”

“You’re my favorite sibling,” Pride said, “I just hope that I remain yours.”