Tag: short story

Trunk Stories

Because It’s There?

prompt: Write about light returning to a place that has been deprived of it for a long time, literally or figuratively.

available at Reedsy

Luz wondered, as she often did, why she was doing this. Over the years she’d come up with different “reasons,” but none of them felt true. Why was she out here? Why did Shackleton keep returning to Antarctica? Why did Hillary and Norgay risk everything to stand atop Everest? Why did Earhart attempt to fly around the globe?

She still didn’t know the answer, but she was certain that it was the same answer for all of them. Whether anyone else would embark on a twenty-one-year adventure, though, was up for debate. It didn’t help that Dr. Ondale had asked her the question just before she boarded. That ensured that it kept coming up in quiet moments.

As of nine years ago, Luz was the first human to do a fly-by of Uranus…and the fastest human in history, having reached a top speed of sixty-four and a half kilometers per second. So far, everything had gone closely enough to plan to be manageable.

Luz looked at the photo taped to the terminal opposite the camera and mirror. Her twenty-seven-year-old self, Dr. Ondale, and Custard, the toy poodle pup he’d just adopted. She pulled the picture free and held it next to the mirror.

Her previously golden-brown skin was now cadaverously pale, her once full cheeks sunken, her eyes darker. Her hair had gone mostly silver, with a few streaks of deep brown still trying to survive, and her single braid was long enough that, unless piled and pinned on her head, it floated into everything. It was, she guessed, nearly as long as she was tall.

She keyed her radio. “Solar Pebble to Mission Control. Completed slowdown slingshot around Mars. Approaching Earth for retrograde orbit and capture. Orbital insertion in nineteen days, sixteen hours, fifty-five minutes…mark. Current velocity, thirty-two point zero seven kilometers per second.”

A few minutes passed in silence before there was a response on the radio. “Mission Control. Roger, Solar Pebble. We have your telemetry from Mars Orbiter 11 and show you on optimal path. Looking forward to welcoming you home, Luz.”

“Thanks, Mission Control. I can’t wait to be back home.”

She wasn’t expecting a reply, but one came anyway. “Luz, this is Dr. Ondale. How are you doing?”

“Hey, Doc. I figured you’d be retired by now.” Luz sighed. “I’ve gone grey, but no wrinkles…so there’s that going for microgravity. Been working with the exercise bands two or three times a day…it gets boring out here. I’m uh, guessing I’ve lost most of my bone density and muscle, along with any spare weight I might have had. I’m really tired of the food packets and recycled water. The three things I miss the most are bread, wine, and the sun…not always in that order. Other than that, everything’s perfect.”

Luz realized, while sending the last message, that she hadn’t eaten in more than fifteen hours. She pulled out another one of the dreaded food packs and looked at the printing. Ugh, she thought, lasagna again.

It wasn’t that it tasted bad, although the texture was strange, but she would’ve given anything for a piece of crusty bread with butter and a nice glass of red. She wasn’t sure she remembered what bread or wine tasted like after twenty-one years, but she knew she loved it.

Bread was just one of the many foods that she couldn’t bring along. Not due to weight restrictions or anything of the sort, but because the crumbs could get into the electronics and cause serious damage.

She realized that she’d eaten the entire serving of “lasagna” while thinking about bread and hadn’t even noticed the taste or the odd texture. Luz chuckled to herself. Twenty-one years, and now I figure out the trick to dealing with the “space food”…think about something else.

As the days dragged on, the conversational lag got shorter and shorter, until she finally reached Earth orbit and was able to talk to Mission Control with less than a second of lag. The tiny windows of the ship had darkened and failed to clear up when she made the slingshot around Venus. One of those “manageable” things. The external camera worked, though it was often oriented in the wrong direction.

Like the windows, Luz had always darkened in the sun without fail. As pale as she currently was, she wondered if she would burn instead. She looked at the sun on the screen, currently the only thing visible due to the camera’s orientation. She knew the Earth was right there and a high-orbit lander should be approaching to make contact and slow her down, but it was hidden from her.

The radio chatter as the lander moved in position to capture when her elliptical orbit was at its aphelion kept her from thinking too hard about anything else. “Capture One, Solar Pebble. I have you on instruments. Maneuver to docking position complete.”

“Roger, Solar Pebble. Ten seconds to capture.”

The jolt was lighter than Luz had expected but the sound of the capture vehicle docking rang through the hull. The last time the hull had rung like that was when she impacted a small piece of ice twelve years back. It had startled her so much she’d jumped…not a good idea in microgravity. Her hand brushed over the scar on her forehead where she’d impacted the edge of the console.

The airlock alarm buzzed, pulling her back into the moment. She tucked the photo into the small bag of personal items she’d brought along and waited to leave the ship for the first time in what felt like forever.

The airlock opened, and a wave of sweet-smelling air washed over her. Oof, she thought, the air in here must smell foul. “Apologies to your noses,” she said, before she realized that the two figures waiting for her were in full hazard suits.

“Sorry about the suits,” the taller of the two said, “but we’ll need you to put one on and go through decon. Twenty-one years is a long time for bacteria and viruses to evolve.”

“Right,” Luz said, “makes sense.” She put on the suit with an ease borne of two decades of floating and waited while the decontamination cycle ran.

They led her into the main passenger area where a couch was prepared and waiting. The taller one removed her hazard suit and shook her hair free to float around her face like a blonde halo. “You probably wouldn’t be able to handle re-entry and landing in a seated position,” she said, “so we’ve got you set up here. Dr. Ondale is waiting on the ground for you. Welcome home.”

“Thanks,” Luz said, as she let herself be strapped into the couch. “It’s weird, isn’t it? I spent twenty-one years in the Pebble, and I still don’t know why.”

There was a slight shudder in the lander as they disconnected from the Solar Pebble and dropped it into a parking orbit. Luz closed her eyes as the first re-entry burn began. Each burn, each deceleration, was harder than the one before, until she felt the lander begin to shake in the atmosphere.

She tried to slow her breathing, control her heart rate. When the lander had slowed enough to be flying rather than hurtling through the atmosphere, she felt the pull of gravity. She could raise her head if she tried hard enough. It was easier to raise her hands, though she didn’t remember it ever being so difficult.

Once they touched down and rolled to a stop, there was a minor commotion in the cabin, until a gurney was wheeled in and she was transferred to it from the couch. As they rolled her down the ramp, the sun blinded her and she squeezed her eyes shut until they could adjust.

“Oh, we’ll get you inside as soon as we can,” a familiar voice said.

Shielding her eyes with a shaky hand, Luz looked over to see Dr. Ondale, followed by a grizzled poodle. “No hurry, Doc. Is that…?”

“Yes, that’s Custard. She’s a bit older now, like all of us, but she’s still here. He turned to the person pushing the gurney. “We need to get her out of the sun.”

“No, no,” she said. “I haven’t seen the sun or felt it like this in so long, I’d like to enjoy it a bit if that’s okay.”

“Did you ever figure out why?” he asked.

“No, Doc, I didn’t. Your guess is as good as mine.”

Trunk Stories

One Square Centimeter of Nothing

prompt: Write a story about someone forced out of their home.

available at Reedsy

It wasn’t that Jersey loved her tiny flat; in fact, she wasn’t even that fond of it, but it was home. The artificial gravity was glitchy, it took forever to get hot water from the tap, power outages were a monthly occurrence, and the recycler hadn’t worked for months. Still, the idea that a faceless corporation could take it away from her made her angry.

She marched through the station, strawberry blonde curls bouncing around her pale, pink-cheeked face, headed for the administration office. In her hand she clutched a data cube with her lease agreement, payment history, and every other bit of data she felt was relevant.

A detailed plan for the upgrades to the station was plastered to the front window of the offices, below the sign that read, “Under New Management!” Jersey growled at the sign’s forced jocularity.

She pushed through the door. “Kai, we have a problem,” she said.

The young woman at the reception desk looked up at her. “I’m sorry, Kai is no longer here. He chose to move on after the sale. My name is Ana. How can I help you?”

Jersey took a deep breath to calm herself. The raven-haired young woman before her with black eyes flashing from a golden-brown face was not to blame. “What gives your bosses the right to break my lease agreement?” she asked, holding the data cube up.

“Ma’am, if you’d like to talk to one of the officers, I can set up an appointment for you. I’m just the receptionist.”

“Can I just sit here and wait?”

“If you’d like,” Ana said, tapping away at her console. “The earliest appointment I can get for you is at 16:00 today, unless you’d like to come back tomorrow morning.”

Jersey groaned, trying to hold in a complaint. “Sixteen works. I’ll be back then.”

“Your name?”

“Jersey Mickle, flat 1423.”

“Thank you. See you this afternoon.”

Jersey made her way to the cargo docks, hoping to pick up a half shift to keep her occupied. It was busy that morning, so she thought her chances were good. She waved the foreperson over.

“You looking for a shift?” the short, stocky woman asked. Her reddish-brown hair was mostly stuffed under a hard hat, her light brown eyes hidden behind safety glasses, but her warm brown arms were exposed from the shoulders to the tops of her heavy gloves.

“Hey, Lia, have a half shift I can grab? I have an appointment at sixteen.”

“Did you sign with Taro Group?”

“What?”

“Since TG bought the station, if you want to keep working on the station you have to sign an employment agreement with them.”

“But the docks are Stellar Freight. Did their lease get broken, too?”

“No, TG bought Stellar as part of the deal.” Lia leaned in close. “They bought out all the independent vendors, too. The chains are staying, but all the small shops, and both bars are closing.”

“I’m not signing anything until I figure out where I’m going to live.”

Lia’s eyes grew wide. “Oh, are you in The Thousands?”

“Yeah. The flat where I grew up, and they say I have fifteen days to vacate.”

“I heard about that. They’re saying that whole section of the station is going to be ripped out and replaced. If you’re going to stay, you should check out the flats in The Downs.”

“Yeah, thanks.” Jersey knew that the flats in The Downs were far beyond her means. “I’ll spend the day trying to figure out what to do next, I guess.”

Lia put a hand on Jersey’s arm. “If you’re going to stay, you should sign on soon. If you’re not, then I hope you’ll stop by to see me before you leave. Flat 77 in The Downs.”

“Will do.” Jersey waved at a worker that was trying to get their attention. “It looks like you’re needed. I’ll let you get back to work.”

Jersey walked back to the station’s main promenade. She walked past the shops she’d grown accustomed to, owned by people who were, if not friends, at least acquaintances. Most had a “going out of business” sign. The bakery, however, had a different sign.

“Armando’s Bakery is closed. Future site of PanStar Cafe and Bistro.”

Armando’s is closed, and they’re putting another PanStar in, she thought. As if three on the station wasn’t too many already.

The confectioner’s was open and Jersey wandered in. The tall, rail-thin man behind the counter greeted her. “Hallo, Jersey! You need some sweets today?”

“Morning, Moussa. I don’t know if need sweets.”

Moussa frowned. Creases formed on his forehead, dark brown eyes squinting amid his mahogany face. “You look sad. I think maybe you do need sweets.” Just as quickly as he had frowned, his broad smile returned. “Yes. Sweets to make you feel better!”

“How can you be so chipper? We’re all being evicted so some big corporation can turn the station into some sort of fake paradise or something.”

He leaned over the counter. “I’m chipper, because I refuse to be angry or sad. I’ll open a new shop on Mars; already have a lease signed. Besides, I charged Taro with a huge amount for breaking my five-year lease three years early. They were happy to settle rather than go to court.”

“The other shops have done the same?”

He nodded. “They were very generous, since they were breaking our business and home leases.”

“I hope they’ll do the same for me,” Jersey said, though she doubted it.

“You live in The Thousands, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“How long has your gravity been messed up? Or your water? Or electricity?”

“At least a year,” she said, “maybe longer.”

“Maybe you can get a refund to go with your lease buyout.”

“What lease buyout? All I got was a notice that I had fifteen days to vacate, and a notice that the entire section of the station was condemned.”

Moussa looked serious for a moment, then nodded. “All right. I know what you need.” He pulled out a small bag, filled it with an assortment of candies and handed it across the counter to her.

“How does that help?”

He smiled. “It doesn’t fix anything except your mood,” he said, “and a good mood will help your negotiations.”

“Thanks, Moussa. How much?”

“Nothing today. Special 100 percent eviction discount…only for friends.”

Jersey wandered the station for hours, finally settling into a chair in the administrative office at 15:30. She took her time with the sweets, letting them melt on her tongue and savoring each. She’d only made it halfway through the bag.

When the time for her appointment rolled around, Jersey was ushered into the administrator’s office. The colorful mural that had been taken up three walls of the office was covered in a pasty off-white, faint hints of the darkest areas of the mural showing through.

Everything about the small, frazzled man at the desk was beige. Beige skin, mousy hair, light brown eyes, and a rumpled beige suit. He gestured at the chair opposite his desk. “Have a seat.”

“How am I supposed to—,” she began before he cut her off.

“Ms. Mickle, I’m David Smith from the Taro Group’s property management division. I’m aware of your situation…everyone in the Thousands, really…and very sorry about it. We’re doing all we can, but our hands are tied.”

“Tied how?”

“When TG bought the station and the leases, the courts wouldn’t allow Bakshi Enterprises to sell the leases in the portion of the station where you live.” He slid a data gem across the desk to her. “Those leases were found to be in violation of Federal housing law, as those flats have been deemed unfit for habitation.”

“And yet you bought the station and are now evicting me with eight months left on my annual renewal lease. I grew up in that flat, and between my mother and I, we’ve paid enough rent to buy it outright four or five times…if they’d have let us.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, where is your mother?”

“You know the big oak in the park?” she asked. “Her ashes are buried there. But I guess I won’t get to visit her anymore, either, since you’re evicting me.”

“Read the eviction notice closer,” he said. “Taro Group is not evicting you; the court is. Since we were unable to buy the leases, you’ll have to go to court to get Bakshi to reimburse you. This gem has a copy of the court documents, including the judgement of the court that Bakshi has to reimburse all the leases in that section of the station in full.”

“Well, that at least gives me something to buy a ticket to somewhere else, I guess. Not sure where to go, though. This is my home.”

David sighed a heavy sigh. “You can take this to civil court, but it’ll be tied up for years. In the meantime, Bakshi has already filed for bankruptcy, so I doubt you’ll get anything out of it.”

“Are there any available flats elsewhere on the station? Ones that I could maybe afford?”

“If you sign on with TG, you should be able to keep your job, at the same pay. It looks like we have a five-room flat on deck seven, just below the promenade deck, or a three-room on level nine.”

“My job doesn’t pay enough to live in The Downs. Why do you think I live in The Thousands? Anything in the outer ring?”

“Sorry, those are the only open flats at this time.”

Jersey noticed the dark rings under his eyes, and realized he’d probably been going through this exact song and dance all day. Her vision swam behind tears that threatened to fall. The sweet taste of the candies had left a film on her tongue and all she tasted was despair. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t have anywhere to go and can’t afford a ticket to get there.”

David retrieved a chit from his desk drawer and handed it to her. It was embossed with the seal of the Federal Government and had a small data chip embedded. “This is a housing emergency pass,” he said. “A troop carrier is stopping tomorrow afternoon for refueling, then heading to Mars. This will get you on the ship and they’ll let you out there. It’s not the best place to go, but there’s always work there, at least, and Federal subsidy housing.”

“And if I don’t go on the ship?”

“If you’re still here after the eviction date, you’ll be taken into police custody for trespass.” He looked at her with tired eyes. “There’s three-hundred and nine of you that are being displaced,” he said, “and so far, I’ve only talked to twenty-seven…including you.”

“Where else will this get me?” she asked, holding the chit up.

David typed at his console and read for a few quiet moments. “After the troop carrier tomorrow, there’s a government passenger vessel bringing an inspector at the end of the week. It has room for six more passengers and is going to…Mars afterward.”

He typed some more. “The only other government vessel stopping by before your eviction date is a cargo carrier, heading to Luna. No passengers allowed.” He turned off his console. “I’m sorry, Ms. Mickle, but I think your only option is the troop carrier to Mars.”

Jersey stood and set the half bag of candy on the desk. “You can have those.” She crossed the office to the door and stopped. “I miss it already.”

“The station?”

“My flat. Yeah, it’s dim and dingy, it takes forever to get hot water, the gravity goes weak all the time and the electricity is hit and miss…but it was home. I grew up in those twenty-two square meters, and I was happy for it. I had twenty-two square meters of crap to myself, and now I have,” she held up the chit, “one square centimeter of nothing.”

Trunk Stories

The Last Manuscript

prompt: Write about a character giving something one last shot.

available at Reedsy

Agnes placed the stack of papers into the box. She ran a wrinkled hand across the cover sheet at the top.

She closed the box and sealed it with shipping tape. With a marker and a careful hand, she wrote her return address on the upper left, then the address of the publisher in the center.

That done, she moved to the kitchen to make her breakfast. A bowl on the counter and a box of cold cereal in her hand, she stopped.

“Agnes,” she said aloud to herself, “you deserve to celebrate today.”

She put the cold cereal away and made an egg, sunny-side, two strips of bacon, and piece of toast with far too much jam to be healthy. Agnes ate her breakfast in front of the radio playing the news from the local public radio station.

After the news, she knew she had half an hour until the post office opened. Unwilling to waste any time, she called for a van. It would arrive in just a few minutes. She stood waiting at the end of her driveway, leaning on her walking frame, the box sitting in the sling strung across the arms of the frame.

The van pulled to a stop and a large door opened on the side, revealing a lift. The driver jumped out and began lowering the ramp. “Good morning, Agnes!”

“Good morning indeed, Hector.”

“Sending another manuscript today?”

“You know it.”

He helped her onto the lift and closed the safety gate behind her. “Feel good about this one?”

“Oh, yes. I think it may be my best yet.” She shook her head. “It better be, anyway, as I think it’s my last.”

“Why is that, Agnes?”

“I’m not getting any younger,” she said, moving into the van proper and sitting on the nearest seat. She patted the box. “These take a lot out of me.”

Hector secured the lift and got back into the driver’s seat. “You promised to sign my copy when you get published,” he said. “I hope that’s still in the cards.”

Agnes smiled. “I don’t have any reason to think they’ll treat this one any different to the others, but I still have to try, don’t I?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Hector pulled out into traffic and began the journey to the post office. “Your determination is inspiring. Every time I think work and school and the baby is too much, I think of you. ‘Agnes wouldn’t quit,’ I think, and I keep on.”

“I don’t know about all that.” Agnes shifted in her seat. “I never had to do so much at once as you.”

After helping her off at the post office, Hector asked, “Are you going home after this, or do you have some other errands to run?”

“I’ll be heading back home. Wouldn’t want to keep you all to myself all day,” she said with a smile.

“I’d be okay with that.” Hector smiled back at her as she toddled into the lobby.

Agnes was the first in line and set the box on the counter. Once it was weighed, postage applied, and she’d paid with bills she’d removed from the neatly folded stack in her purse, she thanked the clerk and went back out.

Hector was waiting with the van running and the lift down. “In a hurry to get rid of me?” she asked.

Hector laughed. “No, ma’am, just didn’t want you to have to wait for me. Instead of wasting your energy standing around, you might have something more exciting planned.”

“This was enough excitement for me, today.”

“Aww, does that mean no drag racing on the way home?”

Agnes laughed. “Thanks for entertaining an old lady.”

Hector jumped backed into the driver’s seat. “You’re my favorite rider.”

“You probably say that to all the ladies.”

“No, ma’am. Only the nice ones.” Hector beamed a smile in the rear-view mirror. “You’d be surprised how many innocent-looking little old grannies are down-right foul-tempered.”

“No, not really,” Agnes said. “You don’t get to be ninety-seven without learning something about people. Everyone has the capacity for good or evil. Most people have a fair bit of good in them, but too many are afraid to let it out.”

“I’ll have to remember that.” Hector pulled to a smooth stop in front of her house. He helped her out and gave a slight bow. “Have a wonderful day, Agnes. And have faith. They’ll want this one.”

“Thank you, Hector. Always such a polite young man.” She took a few steps toward her door and stopped to turn back. “I hope you don’t go flirting like this all the time. Some are not so savvy and worldly as me. Wouldn’t want you breaking hearts.”

Hector laughed. “No, ma’am; no flirting. I’ll behave myself.”

Agnes settled into the armchair in her bedroom, the television showing the local news. To her right stood two piles of manuscript mailing boxes, each with their rejection letters in an envelope taped neatly to the top. The piles, forty years of work, stood nearly as tall as Agnes.

If number eighty didn’t sell, Agnes didn’t think she’d try again. Even though she’d moved from a typewriter to a computer years ago, her fingers still ached after a couple hours of typing. Add to that the annoying sound of the printer when it came time to send a manuscript out….

She wondered what Hector would think if he read the latest. Would he recognize himself as the protagonist? There was just something about him that sparked an idea for her. An heroic tale of a desperate last stand, with “Jorge” defending his family against a tyrannical warlord.

Agnes chuckled. She realized that Jorge was as much her as it was Hector. Not that she was fighting tyrannical warlords, but she might as well be. The publishing industry didn’t want manuscripts from unknown writers with no agents, and agents weren’t interested in an author her age.

She pulled the last box off the pile and looked at the most recent rejection letter. It wasn’t a form letter for a change. Someone had read the manuscript. They’d praised the writing as tight, and the story as engaging, but the tone didn’t fit what they were looking for.

The letter ended with the reader saying they looked forward to any future manuscripts, especially if they were more action oriented. The one she’d just sent off was, indeed, that.

A hopeful smile crossed her face as she nodded off in the chair. She dreamt of seeing her book in print and signing a copy for Hector.

She woke to a sharp pain in her chest, a pounding in her ears. She knew she was drawing her final breaths. In that moment, she also knew that it didn’t matter whether her book was published; what mattered was that she had never stopped trying.

Trunk Stories

Scolopendrphobia

prompt: Write about a hero or a villain deathly afraid of doing their job.

available at Reedsy

The hot, humid night air clung to Lieutenant Terrance Crowder like a damp sheet pulled too soon from the dryer. He swallowed the pill down dry. He’d gotten so used to it that it was something he did daily without thought. The doctor swore they were helping, but he didn’t feel it; still, orders are orders.

He checked his plate carrier vest, slung his rifle, and strapped his helmet on. The plate carrier provided protection against standard firearms but did little against the energy weapons of the enemy.

The platoon was waiting for him in the ruined lobby of the bombed hotel they’d taken shelter in. They’d lost contact with the company days earlier and were doing their best to get back to known friendly territory. Traveling by night, they were usually able to avoid the cold-blooded enemy who grew sluggish as temperatures fell but seemed to favor no rest period. Tonight, however, the continued heat worked against them.

“Gerson, keep an ear on the comms. You hear even a peep on today’s freq you let me know right away. Hasni, take fourth squad, rear guard. I’m with first squad. Pilot, you’re point. Anderson, you’ve got the map, with me. As fast and quiet as we can; don’t bunch up, eyes and ears open.”

“Lieutenant, you think we’ll run into any bugs tonight?”

A shudder ran down Crowder’s spine, and he turned to look the questioning Private Gerson in the eyes. “It’s still about thirty degrees, so I’d say that’s a strong possibility. It’s warm enough that they’ll be busy…and fast.”

Pilot leaned over to the private carrying the radio. “Thirty degrees is probably ninety in your freedom units,” she said.

“Eighty-six, but thanks for educating the dumb Yank, corporal,” he said, keeping as straight a face as possible.

She sighed. “You’re no fun any more. Can we trade Gerson in on a new Yank?”

“How about,” Anderson said, “we quit picking on the Yank, you Aussie git.”

“That’s enough.” Crowder stood. “Let’s move out.”

Pilot moved to the door at the rear of the hotel, checking the alley before waving them on. They moved through alleys and side roads, the former resort city dark and silent…ominous.

Anderson walked beside the radioman. “How did you end up in His Majesty’s army, Gerson?”

“I was in uni at Teesside when they attacked. No way to get home, but I wanted to fight, so I signed up and they took me, no questions asked.”

“And you ended up in infantry, hunting bugs in South America. Welcome to the clusterfuck.”

Pilot held a hand up, calling the platoon to a halt, then moved her hand down parallel to the ground, signaling them to take a knee. With her left forefinger she touched the brim of her helmet.

Crowder nodded and moved forward to her position. “What do we have, corporal?” he asked, in a whisper.

“Bug convoy left, and another two bug vehicles right blocking the road. Unless we can find a way around this area, we’ll have to fight our way through.”

Crowder turned to face Anderson and pointed at his palm. She came forward to join them. “Is there a way around here?” he asked. “Somewhere we won’t be spotted crossing this dual carriageway?”

Anderson unfolded the map they’d found when they first landed. It wasn’t a military map, but it was good enough. GPS had stopped working the day of the first attack, and paper maps and compasses were once again king.

“Unless we want to go back, we’re stuck,” Anderson said. “The bugs have control of the jungle here, and anywhere we try to go around we run into the sea or the open square where the bug ship is.”

“Right. You two stay here and keep watch.” Crowder moved back and signaled for the squad leaders to join him.

When they had assembled, he got them up to speed. “Convoy sitting still on the left, two vehicles blocking the road on the right. We’ve got two LAWs remaining, and a six-lane dual carriageway to cross with no cover.

“With one, we take out the lead of the convoy; make it harder to get moving. We use the other to take out the vehicle on the far side of the carriageway. We’ll have to rely on grenades for the vehicle on the near side.”

“It’s a big kill zone,” Hasni said.

“How much smoke do we have?” Crowder asked.

“Five or six,” Hasni answered, “unless you want to include the CS canisters and launcher we snagged from the police station.”

“Oh, I do. After we figure out which way the wind is blowing.” He held up a hand. “And before anyone says it, bugger Geneva. I don’t think it applies to alien bugs and even if it did, I’ll take the fall. Hand over the launcher and the canisters.”

He took the belt of canisters and slung it over his shoulder like a bandolier before taking the launcher and loading in the first round. “So we’re clear: fire the LAWs, toss the smoke, I’ll start laying down CS, and we cross all-out, spray-and-pray.”

The squad leaders returned to their squads and passed on the plan. The two remaining LAWs were brought forward, the soldiers carrying them setting up at the edge of the building where Pilot and Anderson were keeping watch.

When Crowder raised his shaking hand, all eyes were on him. When he dropped it, the first LAW fired, then the second, the booms of the exploding vehicles echoing around the buildings. Smoke grenades were tossed, even as the beams of the bugs’ energy weapons began to cut into the corners of the buildings.

Seeing that the smoke was drifting to the left, Crowder ran forward and began lobbing the CS canisters toward the convoy. “Go! Go! Go!”

He could just make out the creatures’ vile shapes in the smoke: giant centipede-like beings that made some part of his brain screech and hide. He kept loading and firing CS canisters at them, even as he screamed in uncontrolled fear. Tears blurred his vision, but he didn’t need to see well to fire gas canisters in a general area.

Their movements became erratic, and some of them fell to the bullets of his soldiers, and still he fired the CS launcher and screamed. The bright blue beams of the bugs’ energy weapons stopped, and so did the sound of small arms fire. Crowder had run out of breath to scream and was trying to load another canister but couldn’t find one in the bandolier.

A hand gripped his sleeve and pulled at him. “Let’s go, Lieutenant. They’re all dead, but more will be here soon.”

That unfroze his feet and he began to run, dropping the now useless anti-riot gun. In the broad median he saw a troop that had been cut in two by an alien energy beam. The burned-out radio next to the mangled corpse made it easy to identify as Gerson.

Crowder keep running, catching up to the platoon who were still moving toward their objective. Anderson still had hold of his sleeve but let go as they came up on the rear squad. “Sir,” she said.

They returned to the head of the formation, with only Pilot in front of them, still on point. Anderson looked at the Lieutenant, still shivering and tears still running down his face. “You made it through, sir,” she said. “Is your head back in the game?”

Crowder nodded, taking a few deep breaths to calm himself. “Thanks, sergeant. I…can’t help it.”

“We know, sir, we know.” She elbowed him. “And yet you keep leading us right through them.”

“Not like I have a choice.” He thought about the pills he had left…four. When he ran out, would it actually be worse?

“Now we know another weakness of theirs,” Anderson said, “CS.”

“I couldn’t really tell, but it seemed like there were hundreds of them…but that’s probably the phobia talking.”

“There were about thirty.”

“And we hit them all?”

“No, we hit a few, including the four by the barricade, but the CS took the rest of them down.”

They continued, moving one block at a time, avoiding the bug patrols and sticking to the alleys and side streets. Crowder trotted up to Pilot and signaled a halt.

“It’ll be light soon, and bollocks-hot. The resupply depot should be close.”

“About four kilometers, I’d guess,” Pilot said.

“We’ll head there and see if the bugs left us anything. Hell, if it’s still standing, we might have taken it back already. If not, there’s warehouses there to take shelter in for the day.”

“Yes, sir,” Pilot said. She turned toward Anderson and pointed to her palm to let the sergeant know she needed the map.

Crowder left them to it and took a knee, taking deep breaths and trying to think of anything other than centipedes.

Trunk Stories

Shelter at the End of the World

prompt: End your story with a character looking out on a new horizon.

available at Reedsy

Elspeth had run when the first warnings came, before the evacuation orders. Long before the bombs, long before the world was turned upside-down.

She’d been on the continent, which meant she hadn’t had to try her luck on the ferries or the Chunnel. The shelter survived intact, and well-stocked, which was the best that could be said about it.

Somehow, the well in the shelter had run dry. Elspeth figured she had a month of clean water stored away, if she was careful.

She wasn’t supposed to be alone. Her family and friends never showed up. For a while, she’d tried to convince herself that they’d found another shelter. Not likely, though. Her family had kept this shelter in the Italian Alps for generations. Most others had either been filled in and built over or forgotten to time.

She wondered how many of the ultra-rich made it to their “survival condos.” Costing as much as three million pounds each, they were not for the average person, and hidden away in distant, remote places. This shelter, though, built inside a cave, was on a chunk of otherwise unusable land in the Bergamo Alps that had passed down through the generations of her father’s family.

In the early days of the conflict, there had still been some shortwave radio. No one knew who launched the first, or whether it was intentional. The consensus, though, was that everyone followed their worst-case scenario through to the bitter end. The policy of MAD, or “Mutually Assured Destruction” had resulted in its inevitable end. Mad, indeed.

Every nuclear weapon in humanity’s arsenal had been launched against someone else. The first targets were military, followed quickly by major population centers. The last transmission she’d picked up was from Siberia, where they said the glow of nuclear weapons carpeting huge swaths of Asia lit up the night sky like the sun had landed just beyond the horizon.

She looked in the mirror. The face that stared back was her but wasn’t. Her mother’s wide eyes, the blue of her father’s, in a face that was not as heart-shaped as her mother’s or sister’s. Her skin was always on the verge of tan, but just beige enough to wash out her blue eyes and mousy hair. Her father’s olive skin and dark hair made his blue eyes stand out. Her mother and sister had pale, freckled skin with flaming orange hair and bright green eyes.

Her hair was filthy. She’d have to use water to wash it or cut it off to save water. “What should I do, mom? You always knew.”

Unsure how long she’d been standing there, she wiped her eyes and nodded with a sniffle. “Right. Let’s get this over with.”

Her back to the mirror, she began. The clippers buzzed and echoed through her skull. She ran a hand over her head, the feeling alien. The movement of air through the shelter touched her scalp and she felt more naked than she ever had.

Turning back to face the mirror, she didn’t recognize herself. More than before, she her mother and father in her face, and fell to her knees weeping for the loss. At the same time, a voice in the back of her mind scolded her for feeling sorry for herself.

“Pull yourself together, Els,” she said, mimicking her sister’s voice. “You’re the big sister, act like it.”

Elspeth chuckled in spite of herself. “If this goes on much longer, I may really lose it,” she said to no one in particular.

After a meal of freeze-dried curry rehydrated in a carefully measured amount of water, she went to the back of the shelter, where a low rumble vibrated the heavy steel door.

The box of nitrile gloves near the door was empty. Not the first thing I thought would run out, she thought. She unsealed the door and swung it open, the low rumble opening into the chugging of one of the diesel generators.

She’d been lucky with the generators. If the exhaust had been blocked at the outside, they would’ve died long ago, or flooded the room with diesel fumes and carbon monoxide. Instead, they kept on.

She didn’t have a way to tell how much fuel she had, but she rapped on the 4,000-liter fuel tank to gauge how low the levels were. The flow meter showed that she was using around half a liter per hour, and the tank sounded about half-full. As long as she didn’t put any additional strain on the generator, the fuel could last the better part of a year.

Along the far wall were enough cases of oil to last probably twice as long as the fuel. She started up the second generator, switched the power source switch to that one, and shut down the first. The oil on the now-silent generator was a little low, easily remedied.

After the daily switch-over and maintenance check, Elspeth went back into the main shelter and shut the heavy steel door. Somehow, she’d gotten oil on her hands again. Should’ve stocked up more on gloves, she thought.

She wiped them the best she could on a rag, and then prepared two washcloths for her “bath.” One she soaked and rubbed with the soap, the other she left sitting in the bowl of clean water.

She washed her body with the soapy cloth, including her now-bare scalp, then followed up with the other to remove the soap and the grime that stuck to it. The bowl of water was then used to wash the cloths before rinsing them in a second bowl of clean water. Two liters to wash herself, and the washcloths was as efficient as she could get.

Without anything else to occupy herself, she picked up the box the gloves had come in. She’d been out for six days…or was it seven? The box originally held one hundred gloves: fifty days’ worth. It was one of four in the case. She’d been down here for at least two hundred days, probably more.

“Okay, mom,” she said, “I’m losing it in here. Should I risk it?”

She waited for an answer that she knew wouldn’t come. “Dad would say, ‘Whatever you feel comfortable with.’ Megs would say, ‘Stop being a baby and go for it,’ but what would you say, mom?”

Elspeth dressed in her cleanest clothes and sat with her back against the exterior door. The steel felt cold against her bare scalp as she wondered what she would find out there.

The exterior sensors, including the outside Geiger counter had stopped working when the first bombs fell nearby, shaking the shelter in a quake. The levels in the shelter remained in the low normal range for a concrete bunker.

Elspeth took a deep breath and stood. “No risk, no reward,” she said. She took the Geiger counter in hand and opened the huge blast door.

The counter tick increased, but not to a level that was immediately dangerous. She looked up from the counter to the sunlight pouring in the door. Sunlight that shouldn’t be there, in the north-facing door hidden in a small mountain cut. Sunlight accompanied by a slight breeze of clean, heady air.

Elspeth stepped outside the door of the shelter to see that hers was one of hundreds dotted across a wide plain of grayish grass. The sky was a deeper blue than she’d ever seen, and along with the sun, two small moons danced in the sky. As she walked on the plain, away from the shelter, she looked back to see that, like the others, it was still surrounded by part of the mountain as though it had been carved out by a giant melon baller.

“Thank you,” she said toward the sky, “whoever and whatever you are, for saving us from ourselves.”

She sat down heavily; the gray-green grass soft beneath her. She watched as one of the moons moved down the sky to set, across a horizon in a place no person belonged, and wept for the loss of Earth.

Trunk Stories

Samael’s Sweets

prompt: Set your story in a confectionery shop.

available at Reedsy

“I hope you’re sure about this.” Samael nudged the trays of sweets, walking around to the front of the display case to ensure they were most aesthetically pleasing. The trays of the ugly ones were hidden beneath. He still didn’t know why he’d bothered making them.

“Have a little faith, Sam. If anyone knows what sells to humans, who better than a human?”

Samael looked at the woman. She was a head shorter than he, with no wings, no horns, and strange, fleshy feet rather than sensible hooves. Dressed in a bright blue dress that made her pale skin and blue eyes shine, her blonde hair braided into an elaborate updo. “Fine, Gwendolyn, I will trust in your judgement on this. But none of this food has any nutritional value.”

Gwen laughed. “Of course not. These are treats. Something special. And I’ve told you, you can call me Gwen.”

“When you use my proper name, I will use your preferred name.” Samael spread his wings in a great stretch before folding them with a shudder.

“Relax. It’ll be great.” Gwen walked to the front window and looked out on the black road that ran past. “We’ll get plenty of foot traffic here. The shuttle drops off just there,” she pointed, “while most of the tourist traffic will be heading right past our door to the downtown area.”

“And they’ll pass again on their way back to the shuttle,” Samael finished. Gwen had laid it all out for him many times, but with no experience to compare, he still worried how it would work.

He returned behind the counter and made sure the till was properly stocked for the third time of the morning. Turning to the small mirror on the side wall, he checked his appearance.

His jet-black hair lay smooth on his head, his black horns shining. He practiced a smile of sharp, white teeth in his deep red face. The trick, Gwen had taught him, was to not show too much fang. “Look friendly, not hungry,” she’d said.

“Do you really think we’ll see more humans?” he asked.

“Of course,” she answered. “We’re curious apes, after all. Why do you think I worked so hard to get permission to come early and help set up small businesses?”

“For the profits?”

She laughed. “That’s part of it, sure. But…mostly because I was curious.”

“What is it about this place that so fascinates you…humans?”

“I guess it’s hard to explain, since you’ve always known about the other realms. But for us, this was myth, legend. Hell, we called it, and we called you demons.

“We thought those who died after living an evil life were condemned to spend eternity here…tormented in flame while your kind, demons, tortured our souls.”

“But if you’re dead, how would…?”

“I didn’t say it made sense. Myths are just that. Imagine, then, how surprised we were when a group at Cambridge figured out how to step between dimensions…realms you call them…and they found hell.”

“But this is not hell, this is Anlakh.”

“Right, but it sure looks like our stories of hell, and you look like our stories of demons.” She motioned out the window.

“Anyway, they found hell but no tortured souls; no humans at all in fact. There was also a serious lack of fire and brimstone. In the place of what they expected, they found a highly advanced, pacifist society.”

“We are to blame for how we were perceived, perhaps,” Samael said. “Our early exploratory devices were crude, and often subjected those close to their operation to glimpses into the adjoining realm.”

“It may not have been the intention, but it sure made for good publicity…well, not good, but effective maybe.”

The clock on the wall chimed and Samael flipped on the sign an unlocked the door. The first tourist shuttle trundled past to its stop.

They watched the tourists empty to the street, phones in hand taking pictures and recording video. A few seemed perturbed that they had no connection.

Samael tapped Gwen on the shoulder. “That group the other few humans are in a hurry to get away from; why are they dressed like that?”

“Called it,” she said. “Goths. Not like the historical kind, but the kind that are into the goth musical genre.”

“They look dangerous. There won’t be trouble, will there?”

Gwen chuckled. “They wear black and leather and ‘spooky’ clothes but they’re not dangerous. No more than any other human, at least.”

She dashed behind the counter and started changing out the displays. “Get out there and welcome them in,” she said.

“What are you doing?”

“Making your first sales.” She had replaced half of the trays with the black, blood-red, and spider-web designed sweets, and cranked up the sound system playing Sisters of Mercy.

Samael stepped out the door and waved toward the goths. “Come to Samael’s for sweets. We’re open.”

“We’ll have to work on your sales pitch,” Gwen said. She stepped out past him. “Samael’s, home of infernal treats. Only the most decadent and depraved delights from the dark! Come, seekers of night, find sweet release within!”

Her spiel combined with the chorus of Lucretia My Reflection caught their attention and they filed in after Samael. One of the other tourists tapped her on the shoulder. “Do you have…regular candies?”

Gwen laughed. “Of course. That was just a little salesmanship to get the goth crowd in.” She looked at the bustle in the store, and back at the woman who had stopped her. “They’ll probably be in there a while, and I’m guessing you’re tired of them after the long shuttle ride. What’s your name?”

“Alicia.” Her deep brown hair with a few grey strands was pulled into a ponytail, showing off her olive complexion and large, brown eyes.

“Well, Alicia, my name’s Gwen. If you stop by later, on your way back to the shuttle, I’ll give you a ten-percent discount for the inconvenience.”

“Oh, thank you.” She smiled. “I didn’t expect that kind of customer service here. Then again, I didn’t really know what to expect from hell.”

“I’ve been here about six months now, helping Samael and others set up shop. I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised.” She leaned close and whispered conspiratorially, “But I think our goth friends here will be disappointed; it’s not all dark and spooky.”

They laughed, and Alicia waved her goodbye and headed toward the downtown area. Gwen put on her professional face again and entered the shop. The trays of “dark” candies were emptying fast, and fewer than half of the goths had ordered.

She ducked down behind the display case and pulled out more of the dark designs and swapped them for the nearly empty trays. Using the picked-over trays she filled out a new mixed tray for later when they were low.

Only after every member of the group had ordered and gotten their purchases, did the goths leave the store to wander toward the downtown area. Gwen patted Samael on the arm. “Looks like the first rush went well.”

“Those…goths…are the reason you had me make the ugly candies?”

“Yep. But they’re not ugly. Just…a different kind of beauty.” Gwen sighed. “I look at the landscape here, and I find it beautiful, even though it’s nothing like the green hills where I grew up. At first, I thought it was hideous, but after some time, I see the beauty in it.”

Samael nodded. “I know of those green hills. They seem so…alien and weird, but somehow right as well…at least for there.”

Gwen nodded. “Well, Samael, I think we’ll have to make more dark candies tomorrow. As far as the bright colored ones, let’s see what happens later in the day.”

“Sure, Gwen.” Samael bowed slightly. “I bow to your superior wisdom about selling to humans.”

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  • February 12, 2022
  • February 14, 2022
  • sjan
Trunk Stories

The Demise of the Night Flight

prompt: End your story with a character saying “Thank you, God. Thanks an awful lot.” (sarcastically or not).

available at Reedsy

Nyx tried again to jettison the cargo, no response. She tried to operate the manual override, but it was jammed. “Shit. I’m stuck with this now.” She returned to the pilot’s chair and strapped in.

Nyx checked the straps of her harness and made sure her helmet was secured to the side of the pilot’s chair. There were more warning and error lights than systems showing normal. The artificial gravity was straining to overcome the effects of the ship’s diagonal end-over-end tumble.

“Mayday, mayday, mayday. MV Night Flight, engines down, steering thrusters down, unstable attitude, moving approximately fourteen-thousand kilometers per hour, last known position Oort Cloud jump gate. When grav shuts down I’m not likely to retain consciousness.”

She set the message to repeat every ten seconds with a new time stamp each call. The stars streaked by, and she put her mind to determining the shape of her tumble. By mentally tracing the path of the sun when it showed in her view, she determined that the Night Flight was doing about one-and-a-half rolls for every two off-kilter end-over-end flips.

The radio crackled to life. “Merchant vessel Night Flight, this is Federation vessel Maria Odobwe. We have your mayday and are scanning for you now. Hang in there, we’re coming for you.”

Nyx stopped the automated transmission and responded. “FV Maria Odobwe, this is MV Night Flight. It’s good to hear your voice. I can’t tell whether the emergency beacon is working or not. Damn near every system is showing red across the board. A tanker entered the gate as I was exiting and my warp bubble stripped wrong, sent me ass over teakettle and fried my systems.”

She waited for the response…and waited…and waited. Twenty-six minutes later it came back. “Roger, MV Night Flight. We see your emergency beacon ping and are triangulating your location and speed now. We will be jumping soon. Expect to see you in ten minutes. Out.”

The artificial gravity cut out. The roll of the ship was like a demented carnival ride but not as severe as she’d feared. Okay, Nyx, she thought, you got this. Just ride this out for a few minutes until the cavalry gets here. As long as they don’t look too close, I may still be fine.

At this distance it was hard to tell, but Nyx was certain the sun was getting further away as she rolled and tumbled through space. If they didn’t get here soon enough, she was in danger of finding some random piece of debris or ice from the Oort Cloud the hard way.

She saw a flash of blue as she tumbled; the glow from a ship dropping from warp. “Odobwe, this is Night Flight, was that you I just saw dropping from warp?”

“MV Night Flight, FV Maria Odobwe, affirmative. My name’s Wen Banks, what’s yours?”

“Nyx Carlisle. Can you match rotation and pull me in?”

“Listen, Nyx. You’ve got a double rotation going along with your speed of 14,223 kilometers per hour. We’ve got to stop one of those rotational motions.”

“No engines, no steering thrusters, remember, Wen?”

“I remember, Nyx. Does that ship have a front or rear docking port? If we only have to match a roll that’s simple enough.”

“Negative. Sorry, Wen. The docking ports are starboard and port broadside. This ship isn’t designed for loading in vacuum. She’s a little rock hopper.”

“Roger. We’re working out a solution. Hang tight, Nyx. By the way, how’s the gravity holding up?”

“Went out before you got here. It’s not as bad as I expected, but I’m getting one hell of a headache.”

The minutes dragged by as Nyx watched the large military ship appear and disappear from her view. By watching the ship, she could get a mirror view of how her own was tumbling. Slowly, however, the tumbling turned into a wobble while she seemed to be spinning beside it.

“Nyx, we’ve been over your telemetry and ship specs, and we have a solution for you. Are you in a vac suit?”

“Affirmative, Wen. Helmet close to hand as well.”

“That’s good. I’m going to need you to put the helmet on and make sure of your levels before the next step.”

“Roger. Just a minute while I helmet and seal.” Nyx put on her helmet and verified the seal, then donned the gloves that hung from her wrists and checked the seals on those as well.

“I’m all buttoned up,” she said.

“We’re going to learn a pattern now.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Repeat after me: cabin four, three seconds, cabin six, nine seconds, cabin one, five seconds, bridge, one second, remaining cabins.”

“Cabin four, three seconds, cabin six, nine seconds, cabin one, five seconds, bridge, one second, remaining cabins.” Nyx took a deep breath. “Venting atmosphere via the fire suppression system?”

“Exactly. The order is critical, and the closer the timing the better we remove the roll and the yaw.”

“Okay, Wen, let me check that I can access fire control.” Nyx checked the fire suppression system and verified that it was operational. “I’d really like to practice this a time or twelve, but I’m worried that if I disconnect fire control, I won’t get it back. Sealing all bulkheads now.”

“You can do this, Nyx, and I’ll be right here with you every step of the way.”

“Hey, Wen. You keep track of the timing, and I’ll track the order. It takes a couple strokes at least to vent a section. Four, six, one, bridge, other cabins, right?”

“That’s right.”

“Ready to vent cabin four. On your mark.” Nyx held her gloved hand above the console.

“Vent.”

Nyx tapped the console and felt the ship’s rotation change while she keyed in the command to vent cabin six.

“…one, vent!”

She stabbed at the console. She’d missed the first part of the countdown, so she listened closely while Wen counted down from nine as she prepped to vent cabin one.

“…four, three, two, one, vent!”

Another tap on the console followed by a shift in the feel of the ship’s tumbling and the three taps it took to prepare to vent the bridge.

“…two, one, vent!”

Nyx tapped the console and put in the command to vent all the cabins as fast as her fingers allowed, but she was still nearly a second behind Wen’s call of “Vent!”

“Sorry, Wen,” she said, “that was the fastest I could do it.”

“It’s all good, Nyx. You’ve got less than two degrees yaw. We can dock. Look out your starboard.”

To her right, the large military ship slowly moved closer, wobbling only a slight bit. The stars in the view seemed to be moving consistent with a steady end-over-end tumble without the roll or off-axis tilt.

When the docking clamps locked on, the larger ship stopped the tumble and Nyx felt the weightlessness of free-fall. “I’m still here,” she said, “and ready for whatever maneuvers you have planned.”

“Negative, Nyx. You need to come aboard. We’ve got some high-gee maneuvers we have to make.”

“Roger that, Wen. On my way.” She released her straps and pushed off against the console to the starboard airlock. I just hope they don’t want to check the cargo, she thought.

As she made her way onto the Maria Odobwe, a guard led her down a corridor to a waiting room. From the uniform she knew this wasn’t a combat ship; it was a police ship. The sound of boots outside the room, heading toward the airlock was the only thing she could hear, then silence for several minutes.

The door opened and an officer entered. “Nyx Carlisle? I’m Lieutenant Colonel Graves, Fourteenth Police. Good news, and bad news.”

“Of course,” Nyx said. She looked at the stocky woman in her dress uniform standing just inside the door. She was waiting to hear that she was under arrest. It was the only logical thing that could happen now.

“Bad news: the docking clamps wouldn’t hold up to the maneuvers we needed to make to avoid splattering ourselves on something in the Oort Cloud, so we had to cut your ship loose. It’s a total loss.”

“And what’s the good news?”

“Sensors show that you were transporting explosives. Your license doesn’t allow that, and your flight plan doesn’t include any licensed dealers. Unfortunately, we didn’t have time to break into your cargo hold and get the physical evidence, so it looks like you walk from this one…unless you want to turn yourself in.”

Nyx groaned and laid her head on the table. “All I’ll say about the cargo is it was a privately contracted job. I would’ve paid my ship off. Failure to deliver puts me in a bad position. Not only do I still owe credits on the ship, but that’s half a million credits of cargo gone…along with my entire life. That ship was my home.”

“You should be thanking whatever god you believe in that we got here when we did,” Graves said. “Any later, and you’d be dead, any earlier, and you’d likely be facing a long sentence. Now, at least, you’re alive and at most we’ll put you on a suspected smugglers list for a while. Show us you can keep your nose clean, and we’ll leave you alone soon enough.”

“I should be thanking god? For my wondrous luck? Hey, my life’s ruined, my home and livelihood are destroyed but I’m still alive to be hunted down by my last client! Sure. Thank you, God. Thanks an awful lot.”

Trunk Stories

Retirement

prompt: Write a story about two characters whose first impressions of one another are wildly inaccurate.

available at Reedsy

As a retirement officer, Jillian had a job to do. Distasteful or not, it had to be done. She smirked, laughing at herself internally. Distasteful? I’m a professional, she thought, I don’t get to make value judgements.

She saw her mark, a painfully stereotypical “little old lady.” Slightly stooped, walking with the aid of a purple cane, heavily lined, round face pink with exertion, blue eyes swimming behind oversized pink pearl glasses, white curls in a style fifty years out of date, and a large shopping bag she struggled with.

Intending to verify and get closer, Jillian approached her as she was about to leave the store. “Excuse me, ma’am. Can I help you to your car with that?”

Valery looked up at Jillian. Slender, tall, straight brown hair against tanned skin, pale showing under the collar where it hadn’t had as much sun, and green, slightly hooded, almond-shaped eyes. “Well, aren’t you just the sweetest?” She set the bag down. “If you could carry that, I’d be grateful.”

Jillian picked up the bag. “I’ll follow you. My name’s Jillian, by the way.”

“Thank you, Jillian. I’m Valery.” She stopped for a moment to study Jillian’s face. “You’ve got the cutest little smile, like you know a secret.” She then continued her tottering walk to the parking lot.

Jillian chuckled. “That’s the nicest thing I’ve heard about my looks in a long time. Usually, it’s some guy saying something creepy or outright disgusting.”

“You don’t take that,” Valery said, an unexpected edge in her voice. “You never let a man talk to you like that. If we’d had ‘me too’ back in my day, damn near every man I knew would’ve been in trouble.”

“Trust me, I don’t let them get away with it anymore,” Jillian said laughing. “You’re a pistol, aren’t you? I bet you didn’t let ’em off easy, either.”

“Never have let a man walk over me, and don’t intend to start now.” Valery stopped at a well-maintained Honda from the late eighties and opened the trunk. “Thank you, sweetie. I could’ve made it,” she said, “it just would’ve taken me a bit longer.”

“Well, if I made your day a little easier, it was worth it,” Jillian said. “It was a pleasure to meet you.”

Jillian waved as Valery backed carefully out of her spot and pulled into the parking lot traffic. She leaned against the wall and watched how she drove out, stopping short of the lines, leaving a large gap between herself and the car in front, and smooth, slow acceleration.

Jillian re-entered the grocery store and left through a different exit, checking her phone on the way. Her map showed a marker with its speed, moving away from her, getting on the nearby freeway. She watched for a while as it moved down the freeway at a steady fifty-two miles per hour, getting off at the next exit. The marker finally came to rest and Jillian looked up the address: “Clear View Retirement Community.”

She spent the afternoon on exercise and meditation in her motel room, then slept for a few hours before she prepared to go out. Jillian cleaned her weapon, a .22 semi-auto pistol with a suppressor, and loaded it with subsonic rounds. The closest you could get to the movie-style whispers of shots.

After a final check to make sure Valery’s car hadn’t moved, she left the room with her only bag and dropped it in the trunk of the car. It took less than twenty minutes to reach the retirement community, and another five to drive around the perimeter before parking a few blocks from where the map still showed the car.

She walked toward the location marked on the map. As she approached, she realized the actual location of the marker was the middle of a parking lot surrounded by three tall privacy fences. “Why didn’t you park at your condo, old lady?” she quietly asked of no one.

Unable to see into the lot from her current location, Jillian walked to the fence, then crept up to the corner, pistol in hand, checking her back and above every step of the way. The lot was empty, save for a piece of paper flapping about, held in place by a large stone.

Jillian assured herself the lot was empty, and the size of the lot precluded an ambush as she had a clear view with time to react. She walked to the paper and saw the transmitter taped to the rocked. The note beneath it read, “Sorry. Not today.”

Jillian growled. This was supposed to be an easy one. At her age, all Valery was doing was prolonging the inevitable. She picked up the tracker and stuffed it in the cargo pocket of her black trousers. “Where are you, you old bitch?!”

She walked out of the fenced lot and a sudden sharp pain in her wrist loosed her hold on her pistol. “I’m right here! And just because you’re a woman doesn’t give you the right to call me a bitch.”

Training took over, and Jillian kicked the dropped pistol behind herself and began to get some space between the two of them. “You know it’s not personal. You’re past due for retirement.”

“Retirement? In my day we called things by their proper name. No wonder you’re so soft.” With unexpected speed and fluidity Valery jumped toward the retreating woman, spinning as she brought her cane in a swift arc toward the younger woman’s head.

Jillian avoided the strike only by falling back, landing her near the pistol. She rolled over the pistol, snatching it on the way, and got to her feet. “Retirement officers aren’t expected to live long enough for their work to be declassified,” she said.

“Retirement officers? I have a retirement officer; they make sure I get my government retirement checks from the Department of Energy secretary position I never had.” Valery kept moving, using her cane as a staff, forcing Jillian back, looking for an opening to get the pistol out of her grasp again. “You and I, we’re assassins, and if you can’t get over it without prettying it up, you’ll never survive. Of course, if you survive now, I can congratulate you on your first contact. I didn’t place it until I swept the car and found the tracker.”

Jillian kept backing away, trying to get enough distance to raise her pistol and fire but the older woman kept closing on her. Deciding that a gamble was better than a continued stand-off, she took two quick steps back as she raised the pistol and fired.

The gamble didn’t pay off. On the second step back, her heel caught the curb, tumbling her to her back for the second time, and sending the shot wide. She didn’t have time to react as Valery connected with the cane, crushing her windpipe, and standing on her hand that held the now useless pistol.

“Before you die, you’re going to learn something they should’ve taught you in training,” Valery said. “Watch out for the old folks in a profession where most die young.”

Valery watched as the younger woman’s lips turned blue, her gurgling ground to a halt, and the light left her eyes. She stepped off the trapped hand and sighed. “I’ve put down better than you,” she said. She found the phone in the woman’s pocket and entered the emergency code on the lock screen, hoping someone would be by soon to clean up the mess.

She’d known it would come eventually, and now it had. With no reason to take it easy any longer, Valery floored the accelerator as she hit the freeway, the turbo whining. She wouldn’t bring anything other than the bag of clothes and case of money in the trunk with her. The monthly retirement checks were done, but she’d never needed them. She wondered, as she flew down the interstate at 100 miles per hour, where she should hide out first.

Trunk Stories

The Dreamer Wakes

prompt: Set your story in a nameless world.

available at Reedsy

The problem with nightmares is that they are processed the same way, by the same equipment, as the real world. To the brain, there is no difference between the sensory input from the waking world and the imagination of dreams.

“This has to be a dream, right?” Clint asked of no one. “This can’t be real…but if I know it’s a dream….” He tried to rise in flight, but nothing happened. He tried a running take-off, only to fall face-first to the very real feeling ground.

Clint stood, brushing himself off, the dark ash of the soil staining his jeans. His clothes were familiar, at least. After all, it’s what he was wearing when he lay down in the soft grass and warm sun. Let everyone else crowd the parks, he was happy with the cemetery near his house; better maintained and quiet.

“I’m asleep on the grass under the big oak,” he said to the entirety of the world around him. “None of this is real, and I’m going to wake up…as soon as I figure out how.”

He turned in a full circle, looking for any kind of landmark. No trees, no buildings, no signs of life marred the rolling hills of ash-covered ground. A faint peak, far off, caught his eye.

With the peak as his target, he began to walk. Faint puffs of fine ash rose from his every footfall. The only sound was his own breath and the soft sound of his steps. He checked behind himself often, ensuring that his footprints were still there.

The silence dragged on him, distorting his sense of time. He began to whistle a tune; whether to fight the silence or prop his falling mood he couldn’t say.

What started as a random tune began to coalesce into a song with structure. Verse, chorus, and bridge made themselves known. Too bad I won’t remember this when I wake up, he thought.

As he walked and whistled, his brain filled in the harmonies. The song went from a jaunty walking tune to a military march, to something slightly dark in a minor key, to a dirge, and then back again.

Clint wasn’t tired, but he was sure he should have been. He stopped to look behind himself again. His steps disappeared into the distance. Far beyond that, a cloud of ash was building on the horizon. He turned to face the peak again and went back to walking.

The song still rattled in his head, even though he’d stopped whistling. He was certain that he should be thirsty by now, but he felt no discomfort of any sort. As nightmares go, he thought, this one isn’t too awful.

Hours on, and still the peak seemed no closer; neither did the roiling cloud of ashen dust behind him. Clint slapped his face as hard as he could. “Wake up!”

All he had accomplished was the pain of the slap, a dance of spots before his eyes, and the dread that he would never wake from this. Now it’s a nightmare, he thought. He pinched his arm, digging his nails in. It was pain, but at least he was feeling something.

Clint wasn’t sure how long he spent like that but at some point, he’d broken the skin. A trickle of blood slowly trailed from his arm down his thumb and gathered at the knuckle. The pinching forgotten for the moment, he watched as the blood slowly formed a drop and then fell to the ground.

He watched it fall, as if in slow motion, making a splash of fine ash dust when it hit, then disappearing into the ash as though it was never there. Another followed and then a third before he moved to find something to put over the shallow cut.

“You have laid your claim and it has been accepted,” a soft voice said behind him.

He spun around and saw no one there. “Who said that?”

“Your domain.”

“What do you mean?” Clint moved to press the hem of his t-shirt to his arm, but it had already stopped bleeding. He turned in slow circles trying to find who might be speaking.

“Where we are,” the voice said. “I am the voice of your domain.”

“Where are we?”

“We are here. Is that not apparent?”

“I mean…what is this place called?” he asked.

“It has no name…yet. That is for you to decide.”

Clint took a deep breath and let it out. “I’m asleep on the lawn of the Oak Rest cemetery. None of this is real.”

“I am real, you are real. What is not real,” the voice said, “is the thought that there is somewhere else you are. You were dreaming but have finally awakened.”

“Why can’t I see you?”

“Look around you,” the voice said, “I am everything that you see. If you would prefer an avatar, perhaps I can oblige.”

The sound of soft footsteps behind him brought him about. He faced a nude woman, his own height, thin, collarbones and ribs visible, ash-grey skin and hair, pale eyes set wide above broad cheekbones.

“That’s better, I guess. What’s your name?”

“I’ve already told you; you haven’t named me yet. This form is just an avatar to make it easier for you to communicate to your domain.”

“Does everyone have a domain?” he asked.

“They do, but most don’t wake to it, despite thousands of dreams.”

“You’re saying my life…my entire life, has been a dream, and this is my reality?”

“I am saying all your lives have been dreams. This reality,” she gestured with a sweeping arm, “is waiting for you to shape it.”

“But I don’t have any control,” he said. “I couldn’t even fly.”

“Should you be able to fly? Nothing is fixed here, yet. Once you make your desires known, physics will be defined for your realm. But you can do no such thing until you’ve decided what I…your domain…should be…and give me a name.”

“But why is it covered in ash? Why does it look like a wasteland?”

“It’s not ash as you know it,” the avatar said, “it’s raw materials.” She picked up handful and let it flow through her fingers.

Clint sat cross-legged in the ashes…raw materials, he corrected himself, and thought. If this world is messed up, it’s my fault this time. What are all the things I wished I could’ve changed about Earth?

Time didn’t seem to move, but Clint felt that he’d been thinking for hours…days even…with the avatar of his domain silently watching. He didn’t know much about physics or biology or any of that, but he thought that overall, Earth was as good a place to start as he could imagine; parts of it, at least.

He thought of forests and mountains, wide plains and rich grasslands. Pictures of vibrant wetlands and oceans full of life flashed through his mind. All the things that made Earth beautiful and livable, minus the factories, mini-malls, urban sprawl, and suburban blight.

He had a clear picture in his mind; a rich, lively planet with seasons and diverse climates and habitats. But what to call it?

“I think I have a name,” he said, his eyes still closed. “Utopia. It will be my utopia, so I think it fits.”

The sound of crashing waves and the smell of moisture, slowly gaining a salt tang, brought him out of his reverie. He found himself on the shore of a vast ocean, the sun rising above it. The sky turned blue as a green sheen bloomed over the water. In places where the waves lapped high, leaving behind some of the green, it spread across the land.

He turned to Utopia’s avatar. Her flesh filled out, hips growing wide, breasts filling. Her skin began to change, turning a rich green beginning with her feet, moving up. By the time her eyes shone emerald, the hills beyond were full of trees.

Clint knew without looking that the seas teemed with life that changed and advanced faster than he could process. Soon, the land began to fill with animals. There were pressures that forced change on the plants and animals; volcanoes, floods, earthquakes, but they were minor, over in a flash, and necessary to make Utopia work.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, as much to the world as to her avatar that stood before him.

Utopia turned her gaze to him. “I can be nothing but,” she said, “as I am how you have made me.”

“What happens now?” he asked.

“If you wish to let the sleepers dream in your world, you can. You don’t need to, but it is allowed.”

“Will they be humans?”

“They will be as my environments shape them, but I, or even you, cannot force their form.”

“I worry about war and the destruction of the environment,” he said.

“Look around you,” Utopia said with a sweep of her arm. “I have already weathered ice ages, the splitting and rejoining of continents, and millennia of change. I am still here and still healthy.”

Clint thought for a moment, or was it a millennium? “Let the dreamers in.”

Trunk Stories

…And Child

prompt: Your character runs an inn for resting mountaineers. It’s a calm life, until they encounter a twist of fate.

available at Reedsy

Galen had always had a warm welcome for visitors to his inn, until this one. It was his nature to be warm and open with his guests. She didn’t feel like a guest, though, more an invader.

She had crashed through the door with a wordless cry like a soldier storming an objective, disturbing the quiet calm of the lobby. The fire still burned cheerily in large stone fireplace, the morning sun still shed its beams of warm light through the windows, yet the atmosphere was shattered by her arrival.

Under her large pack and bulky layers of outerwear, Galen could not make out any details. The only clue he had that she was, in fact, a she, was the slight stature combined with the pitch of her voice as she cried out with a, “Raaahhh,” as she barreled in.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to keep it down, ma’am,” he said as politely as he could. “We have guests still asleep, after all.”

She let out a grunt as crouched down until the base of the pack was on the floor, then released the waist strap and wriggled out of the shoulder straps. The gloves came next, placed on the pack neatly. She removed the heavy parka to reveal a figure that seemed too small for the size of the pack.

After folding the parka and placing it atop the gloves, she unwound the scarf that covered her pale, freckled face and removed the thick stocking cap, releasing a cascade of frizzy flame-colored hair. Her eyes darted side to side, a wildness…possibly panic…driving them.

“I’m Galen,” the stocky innkeeper said, offering a large, work-hardened and sun-darkened hand to the woman. “Welcome to Mountain Springs Inn.” His usual friendly expression was absent; the smile line around his eyes in contrast to the concern his face wore.

She looked at him, starting with straight, black hair cut short, down his bulky frame to his pale, sandal-clad feet, then back to his deep brown eyes. “I—I’m sorry. It’s been a long trip. Are there any…official types staying here?”

Galen cocked an eyebrow. “What do you mean by ‘official’?” he asked.

“Government types?”

“Nope. Nobody like that around here unless there’s an avalanche or lost climber or something.”

She relaxed visibly, letting out a heavy sigh. “Okay. Can I get a room for a week? And I may need to extend it later or leave early. I’ll prepay for the whole week, though.”

“Sure,” Galen said, his normal smile returning as he walked behind the registration desk. “Your name?”

“Oh, sorry. Celeste Davies.” She pulled a wad of cash from an oversized pocket on her bulky snow pants. “Does the room come with meals?”

“It can. A room and three meals a day would be—”

She cut him off by dropping the wad of bills on the desk. “Will this cover it for a week? Room service for meals, don’t worry about cleaning the room until I’m gone. Privacy is a must. As such I won’t be leaving the room until it’s time to extend my stay or leave.”

Galen picked up the bills and began counting them. “This is enough for a month in the master suite, would you like—”

“A plain room…just the most basic you have. And keep the change. If I need to extend, I’ll be paying the same again.”

“Well, Ms. Davies, allow me to carry your bag up to your room.”

“You can call me Celeste, and I can carry my own bag. Could you, uh…”

“Yes?”

“Could you not put my real name in the register? I didn’t think about it until just now.”

“Are you in some sort of trouble? Running from the law? I won’t…”

“Nothing like that. Trouble, yes, but it’s not what you think.” She sighed. “I haven’t broken any laws, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Galen handed her a key and put a false name in the ledger. “Second floor, third door on the left. Room 2-H.”

Celeste took the key. “Thank you.”

Galen watched her as she threw her parka back on and sat to strap the pack on again. She rose with some effort, holding her gloves, hat, scarf, and key. “I assume lunch is at noon?” she asked.

“Yes. If you would like, breakfast is in an hour.”

“Not today. Tomorrow, for sure.”

Galen watched her make her way up the stairs. He wondered what was so precious in the pack. Packs were usually dropped to the floor, especially when they were so bulky and heavy as hers seemed.

He counted the bills again and put them in the strongbox beneath the desk. A glance at the tower clock in the corner of the lobby reminded him of what he should be doing. Breakfast would be starting soon, and the lobby would be filled with the quiet murmur of those eating, enjoying a hot drink by the fire before checking out to go up the mountain or return to civilization.

True to her word, Celeste remained in her room, never showing her face. Her meals were left outside her door, and the empty dishes were left in their place an hour later.

The morning of the third day, two men entered shortly after breakfast. They bore no packs and carried no bags. Their parkas were too light for the weather and their shoes were not the sort that the adventurous mountaineers wore.

“How can I help you gentlemen?” he asked.

“We’re looking for Celeste Davies,” one of them said. “She may be using an assumed name. Short, pale skin, red hair, green eyes. Possibly traveling with a tall man with a blonde beard.”

“She was alo—,” he began, realizing too late that he’d let it slip. “Who are you?”

“We’re just looking for Celeste. You were saying?”

“She was alone. Stopped in for breakfast the other day and left. Didn’t say whether she was going up or down, but since I didn’t see her before then I would guess up.” Galen hoped that was good enough for them.

“The other day,” one said. “Which day would that be?”

“Day before yesterday,” he said. As much as he hated lies, the behavior of the two men raised his hackles. If they were officials, they would have identified themselves and shown proof of their identity. Instead, they’d deflected the question.

“Can we see your ledger?” the other asked.

“Can I see your warrant?”

The first man shook his head and whispered to the other. They moved away from the desk and spoke in low tones for a moment.

“We’ll be on our way now, but we’ll be back. If you see her again tell her to stay put.”

Galen leaned on the desk. “I’m not a message service.” The first man began to reach into his parka before the other stopped him. “But,” he said, “I’ll make an exception for you gentlemen.”

They left and Galen watched the door for a long moment before letting out the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. It only felt right that he should warn Celeste, but he worried that they may be watching him.

He went into the kitchen and put together a snack for her room with a note under the plate explaining what had happened. Galen carried it up to her room himself and set it down outside the door. He gave a quiet knock and began to walk away.

He heard the door open, then a quiet hiss. “Galen! Come quick!”

He rushed to the room and Celeste whisked him inside before grabbing the tray and pulling it in as well. She closed and locked the door behind her. Her hair was disheveled, her clothes rumpled. On the center of the bed the blankets were in a pile.

He told her about the men, and she nodded. “They’ll probably be back. Don’t change your story or add anything to it.”

She opened the pile on the bed and there, in a nest made of blankets, sat the largest egg he’d ever seen.

“What is that?” he asked.

“What I’m protecting,” she said.

Galen moved closer and heard a faint scratching noise from the egg. It rocked on its own. “Hatching?”

Celeste nodded and lay down next to the egg, warming it with her body.

Galen wasn’t sure how long he stood there, transfixed, before the egg began to open at the top. A small egg tooth appeared first, followed by a dark green snout. After the unmistakable head emerged, the hatchling struggled to drag its leathery wings, clawed feet, and serpentine body free before collapsing next to Celeste. It breathed in short, quick breaths. As it warmed and dried out, it opened its eyes and began to chirp at the woman that petted its head.

He watched as she chewed up a small piece of meat and dropped it into the waiting mouth of the hatchling. She made a cooing noise as she chewed the next piece and fed it. She kept this up until the hatchling slept again.

“That’s a…”

“Yes,” she said. She pulled out another wad of bills like the first one. “One more week before it’ll be strong enough to travel. Then we’ll get out of your hair.”

“No hurry,” he said.

“We’ve got to get out to the wild where he can hunt and be free,” she said, stroking its head. “Isn’t that right, little Galen?”

“Little…oh, you—you didn’t have to name him after me.”

“He needed a name, yours was close to hand.” She rose, careful not to disturb its sleep. “Now, if you don’t mind, I should return to my privacy.”

“Certainly.” Galen returned to the desk and checked the ledger. He looked at the false name he’d signed into the room, and scribbled in, “and child.”