Tag: fantasy

Trunk Stories

Someone to Talk To

prompt: Write a story involving a character who cannot return home.

available at Reedsy

My mother used to say, “There’s always someone who has it worse than you,” and I used to believe it. It was so long ago, but I could still see how the sun made a halo of her blonde hair around her long, pointed ears, and her large, brown eyes seemed soft like velvet.

The young woman across the table held my hand. “I know it doesn’t seem like much, but maybe tonight you’ll talk about it.” She was a human, maybe thirty, tops. Close-cropped dark hair, medium-brown skin and deep amber eyes. There was a mole on her left cheek that always caught my attention for some reason. Her youth reminded me that I felt ancient, when I was, at worst, middle-aged.

She looked at me expectantly. I’d promised her my story more than once. A way to explain the reason I spent my nights in this corner booth by myself, slowly drowning in bourbon. Before now, the furthest we’d gotten was that she was Angie, and I was Jay. As nice as it was that she pretended to be interested in me, it was probably time to get it over with.

I ran my finger along the scar atop my right ear, where the top inch had been sheared off. I heard the booms, felt the searing heat, and my heart raced. Eyes closed, I took a few deep, slow breaths.

#

The place I came from is not so different from here; a small port town on the coast, facing the rising sun. Home, however, was backed high cliffs, with rich farmland up on the plateau above and a waterfall just past the town. The farm closest to the cliff was ours, my mother and I. We grew bunch beans, cabbage, garlic and sweet onions.

I made the trip down the switchbacks every day to take our produce to the market. Every afternoon I returned with fish, bread, spices, whatever else we needed for dinner. Except Saturdays. Saturday evenings I’d spend in the pub, watching the crowds while my betrothed, Eva, worked the bar.

It was a simple life, but it was mine. Travel and adventure were not on my mind. Never did I dream of sailing around the world like the father I’d never met, or even traveling to the city. I was a young man, but knew that I would marry Eva, and we’d take over the farm when my mother passed.

To this day, I’m not sure whether Eva and I were together because we were in love, or because I was the only one who didn’t look down on her for being half-elf. Regardless, we were together, and it was comfortable. My mother’s health was in decline, and I was spending more time working in the fields than going to market. Eva took over that job for us.

It was in the back field that I found what I thought was our salvation. The field had sat fallow for decades. I was turning it to prepare it for bunch beans, when I hit a large, flat stone. It hinted at a great treasure hidden in a cave in the cliff directly below it, about half a mile from the switchback road.

Eva tried to talk me out of it, but the thought that my mother might be able to see a doctor in the city, that she might be healed, pushed me to ignore her pleas. While Eva was worried for my safety, I should have known I was endangering everyone else.

I found the cave, right where the stone said it would be, by climbing down the cliff face. Inside, it quickly branched into a warren-like structure, a vast system that would put most modern subways to shame. It took months of returning every week and exploring, marking my progress on the walls with chalk, and going a little further each time, but I finally found it.

I was expecting gold, gems, silver or coins. Instead, it was four fossilized eggs. Huge eggs, perfectly preserved. I wasn’t sure what they would be worth, but I was sure that even if I got cheated on the deal, my mother would be taken care of.

I bundled the eggs in my pack and made my way down the cliff to the beach. A short trip along the beach and I reached the docks. My first stop was in the market, where I traded the eggs for cash. More than I thought possible. The merchant who bought them was ready to offer me anything. He gave me enough cash to send my mother to the city and cover the cost for treatment.

I was at the dock, securing passage for my mother when it came thundering out of the cliffs. Great leathery wings, smoke pouring from its nostrils, its long tail snapping like a giant whip as it changed direction. The first blast of explosive fire brought down the cliff wall on the town. Even at the docks, the heat of it threatened to set my hair on fire. My farmhouse teetered on the edge until the second blast brought that down too. Shrapnel flew hundreds of yards, one piece taking off the top of my right ear.

The captain of the ship dragged me onto the ship and set sail immediately. My arguments were ignored. All I could do was watch as the great dragon destroyed the town, burned the plateau to ash, and filled the port with stones ripped from the cliff wall. I had meant to save my mother; instead, I had doomed her, Eva, and the entire town to destruction.

#

I looked across the table at the young woman, her eyes showing concern. “Since I no longer have a home to go to, or a reason to if it still existed, I sit here and try to remember what it was like before. The Saturday evenings I would spend in the pub, watching the other patrons. By not looking at the bar I can almost pretend Eva is there, serving.”

“The last dragon sighting was over a hundred years ago,” she said, “in the Argwall restricted conservancy zone.”

“August fourth, 1911. The town was called Port Argwall then. Yes, that’s the one and it was my fault.” I reached for the bottle to pour another round, but she snatched it up and took a deep swig.

“That must be difficult. Shouldering all the blame like that.” She set the bottle down and I followed her example, ignoring my glass.

“Who else can I blame?” I took a deep drink of bourbon, no longer feeling its warming touch going down. “I went into the caves. I explored them, for months. And I took the eggs. No one else did it, and Eva even warned me off. It doesn’t help that I relive it in my dreams most nights. I see my house tumble down the cliff, feel the heat, hear the ear-shattering boom of the dragon’s blast, and I know it’s all my fault.”

“What happened after you set off to sea?” she asked. “I don’t imagine that you just sailed straightaway around the world and ended up here.”

#

We sailed to Harris Island where we docked. I was still in shock, even those three days later. I wandered around for about a week, sleeping in a hostel and wondering how I should die to atone for my crime.

I walked up the mountain road, looking over the valley and the ocean below. The high vantage point felt a little familiar, but that just made it more painful. There was a footbridge over a gap, probably three or four-hundred feet deep. I was so fixated on the drop that I almost ran into a human boy there, no more than twenty or so. The look in his eyes was too familiar.

He convinced me to sit and talk with him, and we made a pact: if either of us felt like going through with it after, the other wouldn’t try to stop them. Hours passed and we sat, dangling our legs over the edge, sharing our life stories.

Long after the sun had set and the moon rose over our backs, we decided that we both felt like trying to make it another day. The walk back down the mountain was quiet, but it felt like I had accepted a life sentence when what I really deserved was death.

Back in town, we went our separate ways. I couldn’t stay there any longer. The idea of getting on another ship didn’t appeal, but there was no other way off the island. I got a ride on a shrimp boat to the mainland, where I made way for the airship port. Every time I paid for something with the cash I carried, the guilt of what I’d done came crashing down again.

I determined to get a ticket on the next departing airship to wherever, and to give all the rest of the cash away. Of course, it’s never that easy. Here I was in a foreign country, using foreign money, without my passport. I was still wearing the same clothes I had been for nearly two weeks, and in my mental state hadn’t done anything to care for myself. I must have eaten and drunk something, maybe even washed, but I can’t recall doing so during that time.

The local police walked me to the station and asked about the cash. When I told them what had happened, I expected to be arrested for mass murder, manslaughter, at least. I mean, it was my fault that Port Argwall was destroyed, everyone dead.

Instead, they called a nurse. I gave her the money and told her to get rid of it. She gave me clothes and put me in temporary housing, where I stayed while shrinks and clergy and every other sort of hack tried to alleviate my guilt. I’m sure she used the money for that, though, so it all felt tainted.

Finally, after two years, I had learned how to tell them what they wanted to hear. That was enough for the doctor to decide I was capable of caring for myself. I got new papers and worked my way across the country doing seasonal farm work. In less than three years I ran out of continent and settled here, where I still work in the dockyard as a laborer.

#

“That’s the story.” The bottle was empty, and we were both feeling it. I leaned back in the booth, ready for her to walk away forever. It would be the smart move on her part.

“Listen,” she said, “there’s nothing I can say or do to make it better. You have to do that for yourself. What I can do, is be here to help you through it.”

“You’re very sweet,” I said, “but I’m not sure how much help a kid…young woman like yourself would be.”

She leaned forward. “I understand your concerns. Still, I want you to know I’m available to talk.” She scribbled a number on the back of a business card and handed it to me. “Dr. Angela Carter. You can still call me Angie. My office number’s on the front, my cell is on the back. Any time you want to talk.”

“Jerrek Lovienta, but I don’t like that name anymore…so, Jay.” I looked at the card. “Psychiatrist, huh?”

“Specialized in treating PTSD.”

“I look that bad?”

“No, you just looked like you could use someone to talk to. You may not be able to go home again, but you can create a new one,” she said, pointing to the empty bottle, “if you stop looking for it in there.”

Trunk Stories

Nameless

prompt: Write a story about someone who’s extremely impulsive — or extremely indecisive.

available at Reedsy

You can choose a ready guide in some celestial voice,

If you choose not to decide, you still have made a choice

– Freewill, Rush (1980)

Her naming day was coming, and she still hadn’t decided which name she would choose. Her peers had picked their name as much as years in advance. For the next two days she would still be known by her nickname, “Sprout,” the name of a child.

She looked through the list of five names, selected by the priests and priestesses at her birth, again. Each one was pledged to a different god, although which name belonged to which god, she had no clue.

Heinrik, her father, was pledged to Indra, the goddess of life, and tended the farm. Her mother, Shara, was pledged to Malcot, the god of matter, and worked as a stone mason. While they both claimed they were doing what they had always wanted to do, Sprout had her doubts. Did their desired career choice guide them in choosing the “correct” name, or did their assigned god shape their desire after the fact?

Two more days, and she would need to decide. She would be pledged to Indra, like her father, Malcot, like her mother, or one of the others; Ilara, the goddess of energy, Mediek, the god of mind, or Kerar, the hermaphroditic god/dess of spirit. All the priests and priestesses were pledged to Kerar, tending to the spiritual needs of the people of all the gods. This included almost every ritual and rite, including the naming ceremony.

Shara called out from the kitchen, “Sprout, I need you to run to the market and pick up a joint of mutton. We’re having guests.”

“Okay, mom. Let me get dressed first.”

“Don’t spend all morning deciding what to wear. I need to get that joint in the pot soon.”

She knows me too well. “Just a minute!” Sprout dressed in her green trousers and tunic. No sooner had she put them on than she thought maybe the yellow would be a better choice for the day. The morning was cool, and the green was a little warmer, but the afternoon would probably turn hot…. No! No time for this today.

Sprout ran to the butcher’s. Doing errands like this was easy, no decisions to make, just do what mother or father asked. If only everything could be so easy.

On her way there, she spotted six figures in grey, hooded robes, carrying a corpse on a litter. The untouchables. The one rite that was deemed too holy even for the high priests and priestesses: the funerary rite. The untouchables lived on the holy grounds in the forests and showed up only when needed. How they knew someone had died was a mystery to her. After performing the rite, the untouchables would visit the market and be given gifts by all the merchants. To do otherwise would be to invite ill fortune for the entire town.

“Good morning, child,” the butcher said, “what can I do for you today?”

“Good morning, Mister Warrik. Mother needs a joint of mutton. We’re having guests.”

“I’ve got just the thing,” he said. He reached into the case and picked out a joint and wrapped it up for her. “Two more days and you won’t have to call me ‘mister’ anymore.”

She nodded and did her best to give a convincing smile. “That’s right. Thanks. Oh, I just saw the untouchables out there.”

“Poor old Witti, gods rest her soul. I’ll get a roast and some smoked meats together for them.”

Shara was still in the kitchen when Sprout returned. “That was fast.”

“Mister Warrik picked one out right away, and there was no one else there.”

“Help me grind these spices.”

They worked in silence, preparing the spicy broth in which the mutton would be simmered for hours until it fell off the bone. It was something every child her age knew how to make. If it weren’t close to harvest, her father would likely be the one making the meal, while her mother cut stone at the quarry.

“Mom, what happens if I can’t decide on a name?”

Shara stopped her hands and looked at her daughter. “Honey, I know it’s hard for you to make decisions, but you have to choose. Just pick the one that you like the most, or the one you hate the least.”

“That’s just it,” she said, “they’re all bad choices.”

“They say our gods choose us. If you can’t feel the gods’ will, write them all down on slips of paper and pick one out of a bag. The gods will guide your hand.” Shara kissed her on the head. “The broth is ready for the joint, as soon as you mix those spices in.”

“Which one do you like best?”

“I can’t influence your choice, Sprout. I’ll tell you after the ceremony.”

“Where do the untouchables come from?”

“They live in the forest, somewhere beyond the sign marking the boundary of the holy grounds.”

“I know that. I mean, where do new ones come from?”

“Same place as everyone else, dear. Except their parents are untouchables too.”

“But if they have no name, and you can’t marry without one….”

“Don’t think too hard about it dear. Get that joint in the pot and clean yourself up.”

After dinner, while her parents spoke with their guests, Sprout washed the dishes and cleaned up the kitchen. Since the discussions of adults were still no place for her as a “child,” she retired to her room and lay awake until the wee hours.

Morning came too soon. One more day to decide. Rather than trying to decide what to wear, Sprout looked over the names again. She had written them out on slips of paper and tried to choose at random among them, but every time she drew it still felt wrong.

Shara opened her door. “Are you still trying to decide what to wear?”

“No.”

“You’re not dressed.”

Sprout pointed at the names, laid out before her.

“Still trying to pick a name, huh?” Shara crossed the room and kissed her on the head. “I’d help you if it were allowed, but you have to choose yourself.”

“I know. Thanks, Mom.” She looked at her mother in the mirror, outfitted in her work clothes. “You going to the quarry today?”

“No, doing some repairs on the temple. Need to get it perfect for your naming day.”

“If I even have one,” she said.

“You will. You’ll see. The choice will be clear when you enter the temple for the first time.” Shara chuckled. “I had a name picked, but when I walked into the temple, I immediately switched to my second choice.”

“You had two names picked?”

“I had them all ordered by preference.”

“And if you’d gone with your first?”

“Bretti.”

“Ick. I’m glad you chose Shara.”

“Hush you. You’ve got five very fine choices there. No matter what you pick, it’ll be perfect.” She kissed her daughter on the cheek before leaving.

Having exhausted herself trying to choose based on the names, she decided instead to try to pick a god. Kerar seemed the logical choice for her, as she could serve the needs of any of the gods as her whims moved her. The idea of being a priestess, however, was unappealing. What if she wanted to become a scholar, or artist, or shipbuilder? Maybe she wanted to be a trader. Then Malcot; she could be a shipbuilder, trader, merchant, mason. But maybe Mediek; then she could be a teacher, researcher, explorer, artist.

No matter how she looked at it, they were all equally limiting. Each choice came with its own pros and cons, all weighing the same in the end. Even if she chose a god, she had no way of being sure that the name she chose belonged to that god. What if she chose Malcot and picked the name that belonged to Ilara?

The smell of dinner roused her from her deliberations. She went to the kitchen to eat with her parents.

“Have you decided yet?” Heinrik asked.

Sprout shook her head and stared at her stew made from the previous night’s leftovers.

“Don’t push, dear.” Shara smiled at her. “She’ll pick the right name in the temple in the morning.”

“Thanks.”

“I’ll leave your robe for the ceremony hanging in the front room. Don’t be late to the temple, my little sprout.”

“I know, mom.”

“It’s bad luck for any named adults to see you outside the temple before the ceremony, so we’ll let you know when we leave.”

As she washed the dishes, her mother wrapped her in a hug from behind. “This is the last time I can call you Sprout. No matter what you choose, I’m proud of you.”

Aside from the ringing of the temple bells, the town was quiet as she made her way to the temple. She was one of seven with a naming ceremony this month. The other candidates approached the temple, their robes resplendent with embroidery. Sprout’s was every bit as ornate. Their parents began working on them at their birth, spending sixteen years creating panels of needlework to be attached to a naming vestment when the date was near and the sizing certain.

The seven of them lined up at the temple doors, Sprout falling to the rear. The bells stopped and the giddiness of the other candidates was palpable. Something pulled at her attention, and she turned to see four untouchables walking toward the temple. Their simple, hooded, grey robes hid their faces.

“Who died?” she asked.

“Oh no, they saw us! Bad luck,” the boy in front of her said.

“Doesn’t count. The untouchables have no names.”

“Oh, right.”

The doors opened and the high priestess called the first in. Minutes later the next, and so on, until it was Sprout’s turn.

She took a deep breath and stepped through the doors, expecting some sort of sign as to which name she should pick. The dark interior of the temple was silent, the air cool with a slight dampness. There was no spark of inspiration, no clear decision. She knelt at the altar in a panic.

“Choose your name, and be no longer a child,” the high priestess said.

Sprout opened her mouth and closed it again.

“Come child, just say your name.”

She shook her head. “I—I can’t. None of them are right. I can’t decide.”

A commotion from the back of the temple caught her attention. The four untouchables had entered.

“What business have you here?” the priestess asked.

They stood silent. Sprout felt her heart race. Maybe she was about to die before she chose a name, and they knew? No, that was ridiculous. They only came after someone died.

“Choose a name, child.” The high priestess snapped her fingers to pull Sprout’s attention back to her. She was not allowed to touch a child, so that was the best she could do at the moment.

“I—I can’t decide. I don’t like any of them!” Sprout stood. “Either pick one for me, or I won’t have one.”

One of the untouchables stepped forward and placed her hands on Sprout’s face to the gasps of the assembly. “She has chosen the unnamed god, the one who sired and bore the quintuplet named gods. You are pledged to the Nameless One.”

The priests and priestesses turned their backs on her, as did the congregation. “She is untouchable.”

The congregation replied with, “Holy above all.”

“Gaze not upon her face, lest the gods be jealous.”

The clergy and congregation began chanting, “Holy above all. Holy above all.”

The woman tugged at Sprout’s robe and whispered in her ear. “Remove your vestment and leave it here. We have a robe for you.”

Sprout did as she was told, and quickly dressed in the hooded robe which hid her face. The woman folded her naming vestment and laid it on the altar. As they walked out the door, she said, “The Nameless One blesses this place.”

The congregation replied with a final, “Holy above all.”

She followed the untouchables out of the town in a numb fog. They passed a sign that marked a small track into the woods as holy ground, and she stopped.

The woman in front of her turned towards her. “Follow, sister.”

Sprout followed on as the track grew wider until they reached a gate across what was now a road. Beyond it, the road led some yards ahead to where it made a sharp turn into dense trees.

One of the untouchable men stood before the gate, his arms wide. “Before you may enter the hold of the nameless, you must be named. All who have come before you have rejected choosing a name. Although the reasons are as numerous as the nameless, none are more valid than any other.”

“Brother, what name has been chosen for our new sister?” asked one of the women.

“The Nameless One has chosen Kirini for her name.”

“Uh, wait… if I’m an untouchable, how can I have a name?” Sprout asked.

“We are the nameless. Untouchable is what the others call us. Your name is a secret of the nameless and must never be used again outside any nameless hold gate.” He swung the gate open and motioned her in. “Enter, sister, and speak your name.”

She walked in and the four followed her. After the gate was closed, she looked at them, their faces expectant. Unsure exactly how the naming ceremony for untouchables was performed, she used the line from the naming ceremony she’d just left. “I am henceforth known as Kirini.” The high priestess would now utter the name of her pledged god, but there was no high priestess here.

As one they responded, “Hail Kirini, nameless and holy, pledged to the Nameless One. Welcome, sister.”

They led her into the village, past the blind corner in the road, where they all pulled their hoods back. It was at least as large as the town she’d just come from but surrounded on all sides by deep woods. Children played in the school yard and the market buzzed with activity. Her eyes were assaulted by the bright colored clothing they wore.

“I thought…,” she began.

The woman nearest her, old enough to be her mother, put an arm around her shoulders. “You thought we lived in the trees? Or maybe caves? And only wore grey robes?”

“I don’t know what I thought.” She felt as though she had said something foolish in front of her mother. “Sorry, uh, I don’t know what to call you.”

“Among the nameless, I am called Mara,” the woman said. “Look around you at the people working. A few of us can hear the call the call of the Nameless One. They let us know when we must travel to perform a burial rite or collect a new nameless like you. Apart from that, we take turns doing all the jobs.”

“How do you decide which job to do?”

“The elders, those too old to do labor, keep a list of everyone and assign them each week to a new job. You will start by working in the tailor’s shop, until you have made two suitable sets of clothing for yourself. Then, wherever the elders send you to train next.”

“I don’t know how to do any of these things, except farming,” she said.

“You will learn the same way we all did, by doing.” Mara led her away from the main square. “Until you have learned all the jobs and taken part in at least one burial rite, I will be your sponsor. You will live with me for that time.”

“And after?”

“You will be assigned your own home. Or maybe sent to another nameless hold elsewhere to live and work. It is up to the elders. It is on you to simply do as you are told. If you are not accustomed to taking orders it can be difficult to adjust, but I will help you.”

Kirini smiled. “I think I’ll do fine here.”

Trunk Stories

The Ogre That Loved to Dance

prompt: Write a fairy tale about an outsider trying to fit in.

available at Reedsy

Back when the world was young, the morning skies promised adventurers excitement in undiscovered lands. Hilda, a tall, stout woman, dressed in nothing more than a loose tunic and short trousers, was one of those adventurers, having traveled years, far from her home in the north.

She hadn’t wanted to be an adventurer at first. Her people kicked her out for her love of dancing, and every other place she visited wanted nothing to do with her. Over the years, though, she had grown to enjoy her adventures. At this time, however, she was tired and hungry and needed a place to regain her strength, and thus, found herself on the outskirts of a village.

The people of this area were smaller and fairer than Hilda; quick and slender, and given to much dancing. Knowing this, she worried how she would be received, wishing she too, could dance with them. Hilda fashioned a hooded cape from her travel blankets and pulled it close around herself. She bent her knees and stooped as far as she could to appear short like the villagers and so, made her way to the market.

As she passed the villagers, they carefully made way for her and greeted her politely. She nodded at them in what she hoped was a friendly enough gesture.

At the market, Hilda spoke as softly as she could to hide her gruff voice, and ordered what was, for her, a light lunch. “I’d like one of the roasted hens, a basket of greens, and a loaf of rye bread, please.”

The vendor looked at Hilda, and then at the rising sun. “Venerable lady,” he said, believing her to be ancient by her stooped posture, “it’s a warm morning. Wouldn’t you be more comfortable loosening your cloak?”

“Oh no,” she said, “my customs require modesty, and I must stay covered at all times.”

The man gathered her food and waited for payment. In order to avoid showing her large, dark hands, she said, “Take the money from the purse that hangs at my waist, plus an extra copper for your trouble, and put my goods in the sack. I lost my gloves and cannot expose my bare hands.”

He took the money he was owed and put her purchases in the sack she carried over her shoulder. “I hope you enjoy that meal with your friends,” he said, “as it seems you have enough for four. My name is Henri. If you require anything else, ask for me by name.”

“Thank you, Henri,” she said. “I am Hilda. Do you know where I might find a room?”

“Priscilla, the shepherdess who lives at the end of this road, has a spare room,” he said, “for a low price. Tell her I sent you.”

“Thank you again, and I hope your day is profitable and as pleasant as you are,” she said.

Hilda made her way to the end of the road, her stooped posture tiring her and making her joints ache. At the end of the road she found a cottage next to a field where sheep grazed. A broken-down barn, fallen fences, and overgrown brush marked the edges of the field.

While she was trying to decide how she would pay for lodging, the shepherdess approached. “Hello, grandmother,” she said.

“Good morning, Priscilla. Henri sent me,” Hilda said. “My name is Hilda and I have travelled far.”

 “Are you in need of a place to rest?”

“I am,” she answered.

“Are you not over-warm in that heavy cloak?” Priscilla asked.

“My customs require modesty, and I must take care to stay covered at all times.”

“You can sleep in the loft. It’s two coppers a night, unless you can clear the brushes from the field,” she said with a wink.

“I can clear them,” Hilda said, “but I must do it at night, and no one may watch me, for I fear for my modesty.”

Priscilla seemed unsure but agreed to let Hilda clear the field that night. “There’s a shovel in the barn you can use,” she said.

Hilda went into the cottage and up to the loft, which creaked and groaned under her weight. In short time she had finished the chicken, greens, and bread. The bed was far too small, but she lay down curled up to sleep until the middle of the night.

Rising when she was certain Priscilla was sound asleep, Hilda made her way out to the field. Once there, she removed her cloak and stood up straight. With large, clawed hands she ripped the brush out of the edges of the field, all the way to the woods. She was about to return to the cottage when she spied a wolf sneaking toward the sheep.

Hilda pounced on the wolf and tore its heart out with one swipe. She left the wolf carcass with the pile of brush and snuck back into the cottage.

When Priscilla woke, she found the wolf with the pile of brush. “She must have used the shovel to kill it,” she thought. She left a few coppers on the table with a note to Hilda that it was payment for ridding her of the wolf.

Hilda returned to the market, to buy another meal from Henri. “Henri, it is a pleasure to see you again,” she said.

“You as well, grandmother. I had a very profitable day yesterday, indeed. I believe it was the smile you put on my face that made my customers happy.”

They repeated the previous day’s exchange, Henri taking the money from her purse and putting the goods in her sack. This time, she told him to take two coppers for his trouble.

Hilda sweated terribly under the heavy cloak, but she dared not reveal herself for fear of not being accepted. “If you are interested in a wolf pelt,” she said, “Priscilla has one from a wolf that was threatening her sheep. She would probably part with it for few coppers.”

“Thank you for the news, Hilda,” Henri said, smiling broadly. “I’ll collect it later today. Enjoy your day.”

Back at the shepherdess’ cottage, Priscilla offered the room for two coppers, or for repairing the fences.

Hilda looked at the fences. “I can fix them, tonight. But no one must see me work, as I fear for my modesty.”

“Of course,” Priscilla said. “There’s a hammer in the barn you can use, along with nails, posts, and rails.”

That night, when she was certain Priscilla was asleep, Hilda snuck out of the cottage. She gathered the nails, posts, and rails, and carried them out to the field in one large bundle. Working as fast as she could, she tore the rotting posts out of the ground by hand and replaced them with the new posts, pounding them into the ground with a single strike from her fist. With her thumb she pushed the nails in to hold the rails in place.

She was returning the left-over nails to the barn when she saw another wolf sniffing around the field. She pounced on it and smashed its head with one blow from her fist. Hilda left the wolf with the pile of old posts and rails and snuck back into bed.

The following morning, Priscilla found the wolf and thought, “She must have killed it with the hammer.” Again, she left a few coppers on the table for Hilda.

When Hilda returned to the market, Henri had her food ready to go, along with a bundle of cloth. “Lady Hilda,” he said, “I know you value your modesty, but that cloak cannot be comfortable in these warm lands. Please, take this gift.”

The bundle of cloth was a cloak and gloves in a lightweight linen. Hilda wished she could show her smile to kind man. “Thank you, Henri. You are too kind. And with your cooking skills, you must be the catch of the village.”

“It’s a small thing,” he said, “and I need room to start gathering furs for winter.”

“Priscilla has another wolf pelt she would probably sell you for a few coppers.”

“Thank you, Hilda. I’ll check with her later today,” he said, his smile threatening to extend beyond his face.

Hilda returned with her bundle and changed into the light cloak. It hid her as well as her heavy cloak. The gloves were far too small, but she could put just her fingertips and claws in, and by being very careful could make it seem like her hands peeking out from the cloak.

That afternoon, Priscilla offered the room for two coppers, or the repair of the barn.

“I’ll repair the barn,” Hilda said. “But no one must watch, for I fear for my modesty.”

“Of course,” Priscilla said. “I am curious how an old, bent woman with such a soft voice like yourself can do such heavy work, but I will respect your customs. There are nails, a hammer, planks, and a saw in the barn.”

That night, Hilda snuck out to fix the barn. She cut the planks to length with a sharp claw and pushed the nails in with her thumb. In no time at all the barn looked fresh and new, and the old planks were piled next to it.

Another wolf crept into the field, moving slowly toward the sheep. Once again, Hilda pounced, and with her claws cut its head clean off. She left the carcass next to the old planks and snuck back into bed.

When Priscilla found the wolf in the morning she thought, “She must have used the saw to kill it.” Again, she left a few coppers for Hilda on the table.

Hilda collected her coppers and went to the market in her new cloak and gloves. Despite not overheating, the stooped posture and bent knees were taking their toll on her.

Henri greeted her with her lunch, packed up and ready to go. “I see you wore your new cloak,” he said. “It looks far more comfortable.”

“It is, Henri. I can’t thank you enough.” She carefully handed him coppers for her meal, plus three extra, and took the bundle from him. “Priscilla has another wolf pelt,” she said.

“I’ll go round and collect it this afternoon,” he said. “The big village dance is tonight. Will you join us?”

“I love to dance,” she said. She realized, however, that she would be unable to dance while stooped over and hunched. “But, I’ll have to see.”

“If your joints are too tired, there’s always a warm place by the fire to sit and listen to the music,” he said.

“We shall see,” Hilda said, then returned to the cottage.

“I do not have any work for you tonight,” Priscilla said, “but if you’ll come to our village dance, I will let you sleep in the loft another night.”

Hilda considered it. Priscilla and Henri had been nothing but kind, and the other villagers she passed in the market each day shared that trait. “It would be an honor,” she said.

The entire village turned out for the dance, held in Priscilla’s newly rebuilt barn. Musicians played a lively jig and the villagers danced and frolicked. Hilda wanted so to join them, but there was no way she could without showing herself, so she sat by the fire and tapped her toe to the rhythm.

It was during the late hours of the night, the party still in full swing, when a clamor arose from the edge of the woods. A boy ran into the barn, shouting, “It’s an army! Come to raid!”

“What will we do?” Henri asked. “They’ll take all my goods!”

“And all my sheep!” Priscilla added.

“There’s no use,” the mayor said. “We can’t fight them! We’ll have to give them what they want.”

Hilda threw off the cloak and gloves and rose to her full height, her gray-green skin shining in the firelight, and her long tusks gleaming. “No!” she exclaimed in her full, gravelly voice. “I wouldn’t let the wolves take Priscilla’s sheep; I won’t let these dogs either.”

She ran out of the barn, her steps thunderous, and yelled defiantly at the soldiers, “Come try to take it! I dare you!”

The villagers stood stunned as she slashed and pummeled the entire army with her bare hands, sparing only the cooks, the medic, the drummer boy, and the animals. An ogre had been staying among them for days, but they didn’t know.

“She’s an ogre, she should go!” the fiddler exclaimed.

“No!” Henri and Priscilla said at the same time.

“She has been helpful,” Priscilla said, “clearing my fields, fixing my fences, killing the wolves that would take my sheep, and repairing this barn. And she has been nothing but polite.”

“This is true,” Henri said. “She has been an absolute delight each day in the market.”

“We should not shun someone just because of their looks,” the mayor said. “If she wishes to stay, she is welcome as long she would like.”

Hilda had been listening to all this and smiled. She did like the idea of staying in the village for a while, at least.

“If she wishes to join us,” the mayor said, “she can join in this next dance!” The mayor signaled for the band to start back up and the people began dancing again.

Overjoyed, Hilda joined in, her steps light and agile despite her huge size. They danced until the early hours of the morning, then Hilda went out to clean up the battle site. She built a huge pyre with the old slats, posts, and rails, and used the brush for kindling. She gave a reverent funeral for the fallen soldiers. The cooks, medic, and drummer boy were offered a wagon and an ass to leave if they chose, but having been pressed into service, they all chose to stay.

In the morning, Henri and the mayor came out to talk to Hilda. “I see the army left fourteen horses, six asses, two oxen, and four wagons,” the mayor said. “Those are yours, as the spoils of combat.”

“I have no need of any of them,” she said, “but would like a place to build a shelter where I can stay when I am not adventuring.”

“The land between my field and the forest, which you cleared the first night,” Priscilla said, “belongs to no one. I’m sure the mayor would let you claim it and homestead there.”

“Yes,” he said, “that is now your land. Do you need help building your house?”

“I can do it myself,” she said, “though I would like to trade these animals for some milk goats, a few hens, and a bed.”

“I can make a bed big enough for you, with a blanket and pillow,” said the carpenter, “for one of the wagons.”

“I can provide six goats for one of the asses,” said the goat farmer.

“I will give you eight hens,” said the fiddler, “if you can but accept my apology. I was wrong.”

“I do accept your apology and will give you an ass as a sign of good faith.”

Despite her protestations, the entire village stayed to help her build her house. The sawyer provided all the lumber she needed in exchange for one of the oxen. The blacksmith provided the nails in trade for a promise of the first cheese she made from the milking goats. Others provided labor, and a large lunch for everyone on the promise of Hilda not leaving too soon.

So it was that in one day Hilda’s cozy cottage, and pens to hold her goats and hens were completed. The furniture maker brought the bed in his new wagon, and she had the first comfortable sleep in days.

She stayed until she had traded away the last of the spoils, then met with Henri in the market. “I must go adventuring,” she said, “but I will return before the new moon.”

“I had something to give you,” he said, “but if you must go, take this with you for good luck.” Henri gave her a ring he’d had made, large enough to fit her massive finger, yet still delicate in its design.

“Is this a declaration?” she asked.

“It is,” Henri said, “if you would have me. If not, keep it anyways, as my feelings will remain unchanged.”

“Why?” she asked.

“When you were hiding who you were, you were polite enough,” he said, “but no one could tell anything more about you. Now that you are yourself, you are a wonderful woman, ogre or no, and any woman who can dance the way you do is the woman for me.”

“You will have your answer when I return from my adventure,” she said, her heart light.

When she returned from her adventure bearing a sack of gold and dragon scales, she married Henri, and he moved into her cottage. There she lived to the end of her days, bar the occasional adventure, repairing fences and barns, clearing fields, killing wolves, chasing off raiding armies, and, once a month, dancing with the rest of the villagers in Priscilla’s barn.

Trunk Stories

Legacy

prompt: Write a ghost story where there’s more going on than it first appears….
available at Reedsy

Rita and Paul walked in silence, avoiding the crowds, turning at random. At least Rita tried to keep it random, but she always ended up at the same place.

“We’re here, again.” Paul stepped aside to let her pass, and she entered the storefront, nothing more than a small sigh to signify her defeat.

They passed through the cafe in the front and entered the bookstore proper. Rita knew there was no longer any reason to deny what drew her and went straight to the new releases. The book sat before her, pompous and arrogant, the author’s face surrounded by a cloud of mathematical formulae.

“Rita, dear…” Paul placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “We’re here to help, but we can’t do it for you.”

“Yeah, no… I know.” She stared at the cover and time stopped. The symbols crawled over one another, shifting, turning. She knew they were wrong, somehow. “But, it’s not real… I mean….”

Paul tugged at her shoulder. “I understand, and we’re here for you.” He glanced at the darkening sky through the plate glass of the store. “It’s getting late, we should go.”

Rita nodded almost imperceptibly and deflated, her shoulders dropping and her gaze fixed on the floor. She let Paul lead her away like a child.

The morning snuck in gray and damp. Rita paced the house, waiting for Paul to wake. When she heard him stir, she stopped herself and took several deep, measured breaths. I can do this.

“Are you ready to try again?” Paul smiled, as if it were any normal day.

“I think so….”

“You went almost four hours yesterday. Maybe your avoidance idea is working.”

“How many times, now?”

His eyes softened. “Let’s not worry about counting. We’re here for you, however long it takes.”

As they walked, Rita decided a conversation might help her stop obsessing over the book. “Sure is a chilly morning for summer.”

“Yes, it would be, except it’s early fall now.” Paul bumped her shoulder. “Still, I get what you mean. More like a late fall morning.”

“When you first met me, what was I doing?”

“You were staring at the book. Motionless and unresponsive.” He looked at her. “Do you remember that day?”

“Not really…. I can’t remember anything before that day. Unless…” something tickled the back of her mind. “It’s like I can almost remember something.”

“Memories rattling in the back of the brain?” He chuckled. “We’ve all been there. That’s a good sign.” He stepped aside and motioned her in. “We’re here again.”

Rita walked through the cafe and past the new releases to the non-fiction section. The book was here now, but she didn’t have to search, it drew her.

“Rita, we’ve tried your way, but you’re still stuck.” Paul stood behind her, his hand on her shoulders. “Let’s try something different. Pick just one element on the book and focus on that until you remember that piece.”

She nodded and picked one formula. It was wrong, but she didn’t understand why yet. The numbers and symbols drew her in, swirling around until she was wading in them.

“It’s a mathematical model of… of… I can’t….”

“Shh. Take as long as you need.” Paul stepped back, and the formula drew her in.

She waded deeper, the numbers and symbols threatening to drown her, and still she pressed on. Was the formula growing or was she shrinking? Did it matter? It covered her, but instead of drowning she felt herself infusing into it. There was something intimate about it, embracing her like a mother.

“I made this. This formula describes pareidolia.” Rita turned around to see Paul smiling, standing still. “It’s a mathematical model for how our brains make patterns out of things. Mathematically it’s sound. Neurologically it’s correct. But it’s still wrong.”

“Good, Rita.” He took her hand. “I think that’s enough for today.”

“Why is it wrong, though?” She had to know how something right, something she made, was so wrong.

“It’ll become clear the more you remember.” He put an arm around her shoulder to lead her out. “For now, remembering you made it is enough.”

In the days that followed she connected with more of the formulae. One was a model that described confirmation bias, another the electrical storm in the brain when oxygen starved. Processes of the mind, modeled in mathematical precision. She remembered the phrase “an astounding break-through in neuroscience.”

They stood in front of the bookstore, fresh snow drifting around their feet. Rita thought it had just been early fall a few days earlier. “Snow, already?”

Paul said nothing, but held the door while she entered. He followed her to the book. “You remembered a phrase the other day.” He pointed at the book. “Can you find it?”

She looked at the book again. Up to now, Rita had been so drawn by the author’s face and the cloud of formulae around her she hadn’t even noticed the words. “There, at the bottom. I don’t know how I didn’t notice it.”

“Don’t beat yourself up over it. Instead, try to look somewhere new. What is the title of the book?”

Rita stared at the book and time stopped again. There was a title here somewhere. “Got it. ‘The Deceitful Brain: Neuroscience Explains the Supernatural.’”

“That’s good, Rita. Shall we call it a day?”

“No.” Rita focused on the words on the cover. “I’l figure this out, today.”

“Ok, I’m here when you need us.”

Rita reached out, her hand inches from the book. “I can see all the words inside… it’s like… I know this.” She took in a sharp breath. “I remember writing this. The picture on the cover is me. I was right when I wrote it, I knew. So why is it wrong now?”

“Hm. What happened after you wrote it?”

She closed her eyes and saw herself holding a copy of the book, opening it and scrawling her signature. The book signing flooded back into her memory. Scores of people waiting for an autographed copy, but only one face was in focus.

“There was a man at the signing. He didn’t want a copy or an autograph. He got right in my face and told me I was going to hell, that it was the devil, not science guiding me. And then he….” She shook as fright overtook her.

Paul embraced her. “We’re all here for you. He can’t hurt you now, but you’re close. Remember. What did he do then?”

“He pulled out a… a gun. I felt a burning flash across my face as the bullet tore through my brain.” She stepped back from Paul. “And then I was here, with you.” She looked back at the book. “That’s why it’s wrong. I’m proof that it’s wrong.”

“Do you regret writing it? Regret is powerful and difficult to shake.”

“Not… no, not regret. Just sad, I guess.” She turned away from the book. “Can we leave now?”

“Sure.” Paul smiled and led her to the door where an inviting summer day beamed in. “But we can’t go with you, you don’t need us any more.”

“Thanks, Paul.” Rita gave him a quick hug, sensing the multitude of souls gathered around him, before stepping out of the bookstore for the last time.

Trunk Stories

Coffee at the Crossroads

prompt:  Set your story in a coffee shop that’s just introduced a new line of autumnal drinks….
available at Reedsy

Nexus Coffee Bar sat in a place of pride in the middle of the Nexus. Situated at the crossing point between Earth and the outer planes; between Heaven and Hell. It sat at the crossroads of reality. As such, it was frequented by customers both Celestial and Infernal, not that one could tell the difference by looking. In fact, I blended right in, and I am neither.

Long ago, I discovered I could walk out of Hell uncontested. I never made it further than the Nexus before finding myself back again, though. Each trip I could spend more and more time there, as long as I didn’t let my mind go blank. It was on one of those trips that I realized the coffee bar was free, and I became a regular.

“Did you hear the latest A/D stats?” The voice that whispered in my ear with a warm puff belonged to Azreasha, or “Rae” as she preferred. Azraesha was an inveterate flirt, which I figured out on our first meeting. She was also an Infernal, although I only found that out after we’d talked a few dozen times.

“No, I didn’t. Interesting news?” I whispered back. I learned a long time ago to just go along with the conversation and not try to fake any sort of knowledge I didn’t have, like what an “A/D stat” was, or why I should care.

“She’s just excited because we’re slipping.” The voice whispered in my other ear, although with less breath, belonged to the Celestial, Lillian.

I turned around and leaned in close to the two, who stood with an arm around each other’s waist. “Why are we whispering?”

“I don’t know,” Azraesha whispered. There was an awkward moment between the three of us. I’m not sure who started it, but we fell into a fit of the giggles. An outside observer would never guess that the slim, pale, freckle-faced, pony-tailed redhead was an Infernal, the short, dun-skinned brunette with bright green eyes and a hint of pink in her cheeks was a Celestial, or that the dark brown-skinned woman with messy black curls was a human who had walked out of Hell.

“Should I pick up our order while you two find a table?” I asked.

“You’re such a dear,” Lillian said. “I’ll have a triple anger-brew today. I’m going to need the energy.”

“Just my usual, cutie.” Azraesha brushed her hand against my cheek. 

“Okay, a triple anger, a half-and-half love and lust, and a double peace for me. I’ll be right back.”

One of the unusual features of the Nexus Coffee Bar was the ordering system. Once one decided what they wanted it was started without requiring any other input. Except for times when it was super busy, it was enough to decide on entering what to order and head straight to the counter to pick it up. Our coffees were sitting in a carrier on the counter by the time I got there. Tucked between the cups was a flyer.

I found the ladies at a table in a back corner and joined them. Lillian looked at the flyer and said, “Ooh, fall tasting tomorrow. I’ll be here.” She held the flyer out. “Rae?”

Azraesha read it, a smile spreading across her face. “I love these things. I wonder if they’ll have any new flavors this time, or just the usual fall lineup. Either way, you know I’ll be here.” She passed the flyer to me. “What about you, Abby?”

“Hm, a coffee tasting? I’ve never been to one.” I smiled. “I think it might be fun.”

Lillian raised an eyebrow. “On that note, I think Rae is bursting to tell her news.”

Azraesha sat up straight, shoulders back. “The A/D rate for the last quarter, it’s… just insane! 6.4 percent ascension, which is about average, but,” her eyes widened, “descension was up from 0.3 percent to 2.4 percent!”

“Descension?” I asked. Ascension made sense to me — those who ascended, from Hell to Heaven. Did this mean it could work the other way, too?

“It’s incredibly rare… or at least it used to be,” Azraesha answered, “but sometimes souls travel from Heaven to Hell.”

“There’s been some sort of emotional sickness, a sort of memetic virus spreading there.” Lillian sighed. “We’re doing what we can to limit the spread, but it’s difficult.”

Azraesha hugged her. “Leelee, I’m here for you. You’ll get through this.”

Lillian leaned her head on Azraesha’s shoulder. “Thanks, Rae, but don’t call me Leelee.”

Lillian sat up and started in on her extra-strong coffee. “So, Abby, how much longer do you think it’ll be before you ascend?”

I was stunned. It didn’t occur to me that they might know I wasn’t one of them. “I, uh… what?”

Azraesha laughed. “Don’t be surprised. We knew you were a human all along.” She leaned in close. “You’ve already figured out that you can walk out of Hell.”

I nodded. “I can, but I keep popping back there. It’s annoying.”

Rae lifted my face with a gentle finger on my chin. “When you figure out what you’re holding on to, you’ll be out for good.”

“What I’m holding on to?” I searched her blue eyes for an answer but found none. “I just keep getting dragged back.”

Azraesha leaned forward, close to rubbing noses. “The only thing that can drag you anywhere is you.” She gave me quick kiss on the forehead. “We have to get to our jobs. See you here tomorrow!”

I wandered around the Nexus for a while, mulling over what Rae had said. According to her, something I’m holding on to is the reason I keep going back to Hell. To put it out of my mind I watched the crowds streaming through, trying to guess Celestial or Infernal. But from the way Rae and Lillian had just acted, any of them could be human as well. With that the game lost its luster and I found myself back in Hell.

It’s not like the stories. There’s no fire and brimstone, or demons with pitchforks, or anything even remotely sinister. Instead, it’s my life, but the only parts I can see are those where I made a mistake, wronged someone, or hurt someone. At first it was every single horrible moment. Over time I grew inured to most of them. Now, only one remained.

“Mom! Look, I don’t have time for this.” My exasperated sigh was exaggerated for effect. “I’m going to the mountains with some friends from work, we can talk about it when I get back.” My knuckles grew white as I gripped the cell and my mother droned on.

“Abby, I really feel like I need to see you, today.” Her voice shook. “I don’t feel… it just… something feels off, and I need you here.”

“Mom, I just spent the whole weekend with you last week, my friends want to see me now.” I rolled my eyes. “There’s nothing wrong, just watch your shows and I’ll stop by when we get back Sunday evening.”

“Abigail, please, I need to see you today.”

“Mother, I love you but you’re being selfish and more than a little of a pain in the ass. You’ll see me Sunday. Bye.” I ended the call before she could say any more.

I didn’t get to experience the trip again, as that was a good time. Sunday morning, we packed up and headed back to civilization. As we reached the pass and re-entered the connected world my phone blew up — missed calls, texts, voicemails. My friends dropped me at the hospital, and I left my bags with them.

My mother didn’t see me on Sunday. She’d had a stroke two hours after our call, fell into a coma, and never recovered. I held her hand and cried; begged for her forgiveness. She had reached out to me and I blew her off. More than anything, I hoped she knew that I loved her.

After I endured this never-changing loop several hundred times, I forced myself to turn around and walk. The Nexus was never more than a few steps away. No matter how long I spent in Hell, every time I entered the Nexus was the “next day” relative to the last time I’d been there.

Lillian and Azraesha were already seated and Lillian waved me over. “You’re just in time. They’re bringing the samples out now.”

The tables were set with small plates, scorecards and pencils, water glasses, still water and sparkling water, soda crackers, and pear slices. “What’s with the snacks?” I asked.

“These are for cleansing your palate between samples.” Azraesha placed a soda cracker and slice of pear on her plate and poured herself a glass of sparkling water. Lillian did the same, but with still water. I followed suit, and Azraesha filled my glass with sparkling water before I could decide between the two.

Wait staff brought out trays with five shot glasses on each, numbered. In the center of the table they placed five cards, face-down, numbered on the backs; the fronts held the names of the drinks. The score card listed the numbers and a place to enter a score, 0 – 10, for each one. There was room for comments on the back of the cards, but Lillian told me hardly anyone filled that part out.

We decided to go through them in order, starting at number one. Lillian and Azraesha decided we wouldn’t look at the names of any we hadn’t yet tried.

Rae sniffed the first. “They do this one every fall,” she said, “and for some reason there are a lot of folks hooked on it.”

It smelled spicy and rich. The taste was warm and complex, with a sharp tang and an earthy sweetness underneath. “It tastes a bit like cloves, nutmeg, cinnamon, and is that pumpkin?” I asked. As it went down, I felt a lurch in my stomach as if I were falling. “What is that?”

I turned over the card, but before I had a chance to read it Azraesha answered, “Fright; not my favorite — hate it.” She marked a dark 0 on the scorecard. Lillian, however, shivered once and beamed.

“I take it you like it?”

“It’s the best part of fall,” she said, marking a 10 on her scorecard.

I marked it a 3, but probably should have marked it lower. The next, I hoped, would be better.

After a small bite of cracker and pear, and a couple sips of water we moved on to number two. “Oh,” Lillian said after sniffing it. “If it’s what I think it is they haven’t done this one in a few years. I missed it.”

After her 10 on the first, I was hesitant to trust her recommendation. Still, that’s what I was here for, to try new things. It smelled a bit like moist dirt. I took a sip, and Azraesha and Lillian watched closely. “There’s a sweet but sour taste to it, kind of like a berry top-note.” After swallowing the rest I felt a mild case of the blues creeping up on me. I hesitated to turn the card over, but Lillian swooped in and did it.

“Yes! They brought Melancholy back!” She marked another 10 on her scorecard, while Azraesha and I both rated it a solid 6. She looked at our cards. “You two have no taste!”

“Says the woman who slams triple-angers,” Azraesha said.

We cleansed our palates and moved on the next on the list. “The rest of these are all brand new,” Azraesha said. We could see that on the scorecards, where next to each of the remaining numbers was a little blue stamp that said, “Brand NEW!” but we didn’t bother to point that out to her.

The next one was difficult to define. Every time I thought I had a grip on the smell, I lost it. “I — I’m not sure what this smells like, besides coffee.” Lillian and Azraesha both looked confused as they smelled it. “Well, down the hatch.”

“It tastes like citrus, or — no,” Azraesha said, “not citrus, more like, uh….”

“I’m not sure what it tastes like. It’s really subtle, almost insidious.” I looked at the empty shot glass. “I didn’t feel anything, though. Wait — maybe I did. I’m not sure.”

Frustrated I grabbed the name card and turned it over — Doubt. “Considering it does exactly what it says in the name I want to rate it high, but the flavor is just so-so.” After a bit of back-and-forth, we all rated it a 5 and got ready for the next round.

“It’s got a peaty smell,” Lillian said.

We all agreed and swallowed it down. “Dark,” Azraesha said.

“Almost too dark,” I said. “Almond notes.” The possibility that it was laced with cyanide popped into my head. My stomach tied itself in knots, my heart raced. Maybe drinking coffee designed for Celestials and Infernals was a bad idea for a human.

“I love it,” Azraesha said, and marked it 10 on her score card.

Lillian marked it a 6. “It’s all right, but I don’t think it agrees with Abby.”

Azraesha handed me a cracker and a slice of pear. “Here, take this.”

I did, and as my palate cleared the feeling went away. “Let me guess, Dread, right?”

Azraesha turned the card over. “Damn! She got it! I thought maybe it was loathing.”

I marked a 0 on that one and we took a short break before the last one. Finally, we all grabbed our last sample and took a sniff. Lillian’s nose wrinkled and Azraesha turned aside in disgust. To me, it smelled like… home.

“Well, we didn’t come this far to back out now,” Azraesha said. She placed another cracker and several slices of pear on her plate and refilled her water. She took a deep breath and said, “Let’s do this.”

Azraesha swallowed, gagged, chugged her sparkling water and stuffed a cracker in her mouth. Lillian frowned. “That’s the worst thing I’ve ever tasted,” she said.

“It’s warm, it tastes familiar, comfortable,” I said. “Maybe it’s an acquired taste, but for some reason it tastes normal to me.” I marked it a 10 while Azraesha and Lillian both marked it a 0. Azraesha turned the card over and nodded. When she didn’t say anything else, I looked at the card myself. Guilt. Her words returned, that I needed to figure out what I was holding on to. That was it.

“Azraesha, thank you.”

“For what, Abigail?” She was casually nibbling on the remaining pear slices.

“I know what keeps dragging me back.” I lifted the shot glass. “This.”

“That’s foul,” Lillian said. “You definitely need to let go of that.”

“I used to wish we were more like humans,” Azraesha said. “I won’t say I envied you, except when they do the Envy blend in the spring, but I thought it must be nice to be able to feel emotions just… whenever.”

“It’s a bad deal, though,” Lillian said. “Who wants to feel anger when you need to focus, or contentment when you need to fight?”

“Exactly.” Azraesha grabbed my hand and held it between her own. “And who would ever want to feel… that,” she said, nodding at the shot glass in my other hand. “I’d rather be run through with a spike.”

I felt the weight lift for the first time since my mother died. Tears began to pool in my eyes.

“Oh no,” Lillian said, “we made her sad.”

“No,” I said, “not sad. Just very happy right now.”

“But you’re crying.”

“Lillian,” Azraesha asked, “are you telling me you’ve never heard of happy tears?”

“Oh, yeah, I’ve heard of it, I just thought it was a saying or something. I didn’t know it was real.”

I turned the shot glass upside down and slammed it down on the table. “Can I have a hug?”

Instead of answering they both moved around the table and held on to me. “I’ve let go of so many other things, I think it’s time to let this go, too.”

As we held on to each other I noticed that they both started tearing up. “Happy tears!” Lillian said, and she and Azraesha laughed together.

“But, how?” I asked. “I thought you couldn’t feel emotion without…” I nodded toward the empties on the table.

“That,” Azraesha said, “or if a human openly shares it with us. Thank you. This is the most precious gift ever.”

We held each other for what felt like hours, although it was likely only a minute or two. “You two probably need to get to work. Meanwhile, I think I’m ready to go home.”

They kissed me on opposite cheeks, then we untangled. The two of them hugged briefly and giggled, wiping their tears, before walking their separate ways.

I strolled around the Nexus, watching people, not trying to figure out who or what they were, but just… watching. I cleared my mind and let myself drift, and a door opened to my right. Beyond the door stood my mother, arms open, a warm smile on her face. I ascended.

Trunk Stories

Extensions

prompt:  Write a story involving a conversation that’s packed with subtext; the characters aren’t quite saying what they mean….
available at Reedsy

“The Librarian” wore a dour expression on her lined face. Her grey eyes glared above the half-moon glasses resting on the bridge of her nose. A blush of pink rose with her ire in her porcelain cheeks. “What do you mean, another extension?”

Samuel shifted nervously from one foot to the other, careful to look anywhere but into those piercing eyes. His short stature, thin frame, and smooth, dun skin belied his true age, but fixing his deep brown eyes to her gaze still made him feel like a child. “There’s… extenuating circumstances,” he offered.

“Still and again, eh?” The Librarian dropped a heavy tome with a loud a thud. “This makes what, fifteen?”

“Er,” Samuel knew that she was painfully aware of just how many it was. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Do you know why I’m called The Librarian?” she asked.

“Er, no ma’am.”

She removed her glasses, letting them hang around her neck on the thin, gold chain that linked the ear pieces. “Because I run this place like a library. We loan. We do not sell or give away permanently.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I trust this will be the last I hear of this?”

Samuel caught her gaze, and as much as he wanted to answer in the affirmative, feared the outcome if he did and was wrong. “I… hope so?”

“You hope so!?” The Librarian almost never raised her voice. When she did, as now, the object of her wrath could feel the trembling to their bones. “That copy has been out so long it’s been superseded, not once or twice, but at least a dozen times! It’s time to retire it, now.”

With an unexpected bravado Samuel asked, “Why? If it’s still good enough for…,” he regretted his words as soon as they were out.

“It’s not ‘still good enough.’ “ The mocking tone of her reply caught him off-guard. “That copy has been in circulation for so long it’s falling apart. Losing pages here and there, and who knows how many penciled-in edits, revisions and probably flat-out vandalism by now.”

“But…”

“No buts.” She waved over another of the assistants. “Angela, have you met Samuel?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Angela stood half a head taller than Samuel, her afro extending that to a full head. Samuel didn’t need to look at her to see her eyes so dark the pupils didn’t show, her skin a warm, dark red-brown, her full lips that he often fantasized saying his name.

“Angela, I’d like you to take Samuel down to receiving.” The Librarian returned her glasses to her nose and began jotting notes on her calendar. “I know you could use some help down there, and it would be good for him to get a better understanding of how we do things here.”

“Of course, ma’am.” Angela flashed a wide, toothy smile at her. “I’ll get him straightened out in no time.”

“While I appreciate your enthusiasm,” The Librarian said, “don’t make any promises you’ll regret.”

Angela’s smile was replaced with a more serious, hard expression. “Right you are, ma’am. I’ll do my best to get him on board.”

As Samuel followed Angela to the elevator he tried to come up with some way to break the ice. Now that they’d be working together it was his best shot. They entered the elevator and Angela pushed a button for their destination.

When the doors closed Samuel hesitated for a moment, and was about to speak when Angela started instead. “Are you seriously that daft?”

“I… uh,” he stammered. “Wha-what do you mean?”

“Fifteen extensions!?” Angela laughed. “You’re the talk of the place. Sure, maybe one extension, on very rare occasions two, but fifteen! You are, without a doubt, either the bravest or the dumbest person here.”

“There are extenuating circumstances!” His voice came out rather more petulant than he would have liked.

“Look, kid,” Angela said. “You have to learn how to pick your battles. And this is one you won’t win.”

“I’m not a kid.” Samuel felt his fantasies about Angela disappear in a cloud of self-doubt. “I’m probably older than you.”

“Maybe, but you’re acting like a child.” She placed a hand on his shoulder. “Just because you like a borrower, or even believe that they have a very good reason to extend a loan, it’s not enough. It just isn’t done.”

“If I could just get her to hear me out, I’m sure she’d change her mind.”

“Who, The Librarian?”

“Of course, who else would I mean?”

“She doesn’t change her mind.” Angela shook her head, her afro bouncing side to side. “Never happens.”

The elevator stopped and they stepped into the receiving department; cold grey concrete slab floors and walls enclosing a utilitarian workspace. “Do you,” Samuel asked, “know her name?”

“The Librarian? Sure.” Angela guided him to her office.

“What is it?”

“I said I know her name, I didn’t say I’d tell you.” Angela stopped him and stared in eyes. “We. Do. Not. Speak. Her. Name.”

Samuel gulped. “I knew she was private, but….”

“Enough of that.” Angela led him into her office. On a bench to one side were stacks of folders, ranging from massive tomes-worth bundles of documents to those with no more than one or two sheets in them. She pulled one out of the middle of one of the stacks with a deft flick of her wrist. Samuel expected the stack to topple but it dropped into the missing space neatly with a thud. She handed it to Samuel.

He recognized the cover, even though he could see the differences right off. “This is the newest version, I guess?’”

“It is.” She opened the cover and leafed through a few pages. “Notice how clean, and notice that the language is more up-to-date.”

“Yes, but as a remote agent I have only one group to keep happy,” he said. “If they don’t want the changes, why should I push them on it?”

“I don’t know if you’re aware,” Angela said, “but I don’t spend all my time in receiving. I’m a field customer service agent as well. You’d know that if you came to the meetings. You’d also know that we are no longer called ‘remote agents.’”

“And how do your customers feel about change?”

“Some of them are all for it,” she said. “There are those who don’t like change, and don’t want it. I don’t give them a choice.” Angela walked to the far end of the office where a row of ten folders stood on a shelf. “These are their next ten. Or maybe nine,” she said, pulling one out part way. “This one is… problematic. They may reject it outright.”

“So you’ve already read them and vetted them?”

“As soon as they come in.”

Samuel raised the folder he held. “And if this one is problematic?”

“There’s another thirty or so copies in storage.” Angela stopped herself. “I meant to say versions, not copies. There are no exact copies of anything here.”

“Which makes it that much more important that my customers get the version they want.”

“It’s not about who wants what.” Angela crossed back to the bench and picked up one of the folders with only one document in it from the stack. The document inside had only a few lines on it. “Do you think anyone wants this?” She petted the cover and held it close to her heart. “Poor little thing. No, no one wants this, but it still needs to go out all the same.”

“What happens to the ones that don’t?”

“After a certain amount of time they find their way to excess shipping.” She leaned against her desk. “They go out to the lottery draw, and are passed out randomly. I’m afraid that’s the fate for this one.”

A panic hit Samuel. If those newer versions ended up in the lottery, anyone might get them. “Uh, I need to find the other versions of this, quick!”

Angela laughed. “The Librarian isn’t very good at explaining the why, just telling us the what. I knew you’d come around once you knew the whole story. That’s why the other versions are in the box by my desk.”

Samuel let out an audible sigh. “Thank you, Angela. But then, what happens when they’re returned? At the end of the loan?”

“That depends on their contents when they get here.” Angela shrugged. “Some are retired, placed in the private stacks upstairs. A few, if they’re really foul, are shredded and burned; but most are sent to recycling and returned to circulation.”

Samuel thought about that for a moment before speaking. “Well, she did say retired, not chucked in the furnace. I guess maybe it is time to get the old version back.” He added the newest version to the box and lifted it. “So, who is your customer group?”

“Roman Catholics.”

“Huh.” He looked at the row of folders on the shelf. “So that’s the next ten, or maybe only nine, popes, then?”

“Yep.” She nodded at the box he held. “And now it looks like the next thirty or so Dalai Lamas are in good hands as well.”

“Say, Angela, would you like to…”

She cut him off. “The Librarian does not allow any fraternization of Soul Repository employees. Not. At. All.”

“Right.” He cleared his throat. “Maybe I’ll see you around the break room sometime, eh?”

Angela smiled. “Maybe. I’ve got to get back to work now, and you need to go tell The Librarian you’ve learned the error of your ways.”

Trunk Stories

Meeting With The Higher Ups

prompt:  Write a story that involves a mystery — it doesn’t need to be crime-related, it should just include something that remains unexplained until the end….
available on Reedsy

I hate my job… no, not hate, but I certainly don’t like it any more. My job used to be my joy, and I would have happily done it without pay. Then I got too good at it, I guess. Got promoted a few times, and now… this.

There’s a meeting on my calendar with my boss, her boss, and someone else I can’t see in the BCC on the meeting invite. This afternoon. Hopefully they’ve finally figured out how unhappy I am and are ready to move me back to my old position. No, that would’ve just been Maia, my boss, telling me to pack up and move back downstairs.

When I started, I had no idea what was going on. It was all so new and exciting, and then I got my first assignments; little things, really. Oh, but I excelled at them! I loved designing and building the little things; things that most would never notice in a million years, but I did. Whether it was one of mine or not, I always noticed the little things. It’s the small touches that really complete a thing.

My position now, though, has me overseeing a whole world of stuff. I’m too wrapped up in the big things to take notice of the little things these days. Maybe that’s what it is. I’m going to get chewed out for the stuff the creep downstairs has been slipping into the code.

Since I’m not going to get any work done while worrying about the meeting I decide to look in on some of the little things my replacement, the creep downstairs, was building. I had warned against hiring him, but no-one listened. His newest creations make me sick. They exhibit a certain cruelty in their design, not to mention flaws that could bring the whole enterprise down.

I write up my concerns, along with examples, but before I can mail it to my boss I get an emergency notification. This is what my job is now, take care of the big stuff and forget about the little things. I delete the draft and log on to see what the emergency is.

It’s enough to push the mystery meeting to the back burner for now. There’s never a good time for a war, but this has to be the worst. On one side, one of my favorite teams, who is currently having problems caused by some of those cruel little things, and on the other the team led by the self-important, overbearing jerk who likes only three things: pretending nothing else exists, stealing from others, and most of all, he really loves himself.

Well, I’m not going to let this stand. If I’m careful about how I do it I can make sure the jerk gets his comeuppance, and possibly even help my favorites recover from the flaws the creep downstairs put in the system. I go into my creator-space and begin writing the code that will do this.

I have a long look at the resource allocations for both sides, and see what they each have and have not discovered. The jerk hasn’t discovered the iron in his territory… and now it’s basalt. It looks like his team is building a well. I tweak the layer the water is in, rendering it too alkaline to use.

Anyone who thinks we don’t change the playing field once it’s set is deluded. We make these kinds of changes all the time. Sometimes, like now, to help out a team we really like. Other times, also like now, to thwart a team we really don’t like. Usually, though, we just get bored or have a momentary inspiration to do something different. That’s why doing the small stuff is so fun. There’s always somewhere to build something new, something that’s never been seen.

Looking back at the resources of my favorites I see they’ve found the precious metals, but haven’t gone very deep yet. I extend and expand the main vein they’re about to hit into a bonanza. Even with that, though, they don’t stand a chance without outside help. Time to check their neighbors.

To one side, a reasonably strong neighbor with no precious metals. To the other, a neighbor with a huge army, and a need for more advanced agriculture. I send them messages, letting them know that the jerk is coming to take their lands. Not specifically disallowed, but not generally smiled on. I shrug and continue on with my quest to ruin the jerk.

I leave hints for my favorite team, telling them to trade with their bordering teams, make alliances, defeat the coming doom. I send a message to the team’s informer as well, pointing them to the hints. Not only allowed, but expected. On one border I add a small spring, and in the spring I add a new creation, one that can fix the flaw of the latest addition from the creep downstairs.

Now it’s time to sit back and see what happens over the next few turns. I watch with interest as a new leader takes over for my favorite team: the previous informer. She manages to turn trade deals into an alliance. That alliance beats back the jerk, whose entire team is taken out of play.

What happens next is a surprise. The alliance turns into a unified territory, and incorporates the empty lands that the jerk left behind. They are sailing on to more advanced technology, fueled by the massive cache of precious metals. Maybe I made it a little too large. No worry, they’re still my favorites and my inbox is filling with thanks from them.

When they figure out the fix in the spring it doesn’t take them long to recreate it for themselves. I’m pleased when their first impulse is to share it with every other team they meet. I guess there are times that this job can be enjoyable, too.

Oh, yeah. The meeting. My calendar is blinking at me, telling me it’s time to go. I think I’ll be okay with moving back downstairs, but I doubt that’s it. My last review was good, so I don’t think I’m getting the axe. Thinking about it isn’t helping, because nothing I can think of should have more than my boss and maybe HR involved.

My calendar is blinking red now, so I get up and head to the elevator to go to Maia’s office. The elevator plays muzak that’s been on repeat for about five or six years now. The trip to the next floor is too quick. Oh well, time to learn what this is all about.

Maia is standing outside her office waiting for me.

“By the way, Maia,” I say, “I’m a little concerned about the stuff that…”

“Don’t worry,” she cuts me off. “Erra’s doing a fine job, he just does it differently than you did.”

She opens the door and leads me in. There stands Maia, her boss Gaia, and seated at Maia’s desk is the big boss. Now I’m nervous. I close the door, unsure of what’s happening.

Maia says “Tacita, come, meet Tiamat.”

I shake her hand, surprised at her strength given how old and frail she looks. “Pleased to meet you, Ma’am.”

“Oh, the pleasure’s mine,” she says. “Nice work with the emergency call there.” Her smile is at once warm and mischievous.

“Oh, you… were watching?”

“Of course, dear, it’s what I do.” Tiamat winks at me and stands, not much taller than when she’s seated.

“I told you she was ready,” Maia says.

“Ready for what?” I ask.

The office grows brighter than I can stand for a moment as Tiamat shines, then returns to normal. “For your promotion!”

“Again!?” I shout. “I just started to enjoy…”

I’m cut off by Gaia and Maia glaring at me and Tiamat laughing. “Fire builds in silence, doesn’t it? Follow me, please.”

I follow her out of the office, Gaia tagging along. “Isn’t Maia coming?” I ask.

“Gaia’s your boss now, Maia’s your coworker.” Tiamat leads us down the hall to a door I didn’t know existed. “But you can visit her any time you like. Here’s your new office. I’m sure you’ll learn to find as much joy watching over a realm as you have a world.”

She closes the door and I flop down in my chair, plant my face on the desk, and cry.