Tag: short story

Trunk Stories

Reeducation

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

available at Reedsy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Trunk Stories

Hello

prompt: Begin your story with somebody watching the sunrise, or sunset.

available at Reedsy

Something woke me before dawn. I hoped it was a ship, but I couldn’t see any lights. Instead, I watched the sun rise over the ocean. Low chop, there would be no merciful breeze today.

A whale breached and blew, and then another and another. If they were this close to the island on their migration, I knew there must be a shoal of fish out there. I readied my net and hoped they would drive the fish toward me.

I waded out to where the water was just above my knees, the waves reaching just below my chest. How long I stood there, net at the ready, I don’t know. When the whales herded the shoal using bubbles, a portion of them broke off, and swam straight towards the shore in their panic. I caught thirteen on the first cast, waded back out and caught another eight. They weren’t big fish, but they’d be a nice supplement to coconut, roots and leaves of whatever didn’t make me sick, and the tiny crabs that I sometimes roasted and crunched up shells and all.

The island was, I figured, about an acre, give or take. There were plenty of coconut palms, some sparse grass, and a few plants growing in the shade of the palms. Every now and then, a coconut would wash ashore with the high tide, explaining where they came from. The other plants must have hitchhiked in on them as seeds.

Smallish grey and white gulls returned every year to nest. The noise and stink were nearly unbearable at first, but by the time they left I was used to it. It gave me the opportunity to gather eggs, and the weak chicks that were either hatched too late, or too slow to develop and were left behind. The eggs were far tastier than the chicks, but I couldn’t afford to be picky.

I had stopped keeping track of the days a couple of years before, so it was always a pleasant surprise when the gulls showed up to nest. With the whales passing through, it should be sometime in the next few weeks. I replaced the palm fronds on my hut’s roof. I didn’t mind the rain so much, when it came, but could do without being covered in guano while I slept.

I gutted the fish and hung them to dry in the salt air. Fire was a luxury, and not one I employed often. My fuel was limited to coconut husks and dried guano, unless I wanted to cook; then I’d leave out the guano, as the flavor it imparted was horrendous.

The only things left of my sailboat were the now tattered and faded flags that flapped on a pole strapped to one of the palms, my logbook, and the few tools I had rescued before the broken hull washed out to the deep water. A machete that was noticeably thinner of blade than when I had started, a hatchet, now in need of a handle, fifty feet of nylon rope that I had unwound and worked into a net, and a titanium spork that had been a joke birthday gift.

With the fish hung to dry there was little to do for the rest of the day, so I checked the state of my palm skirt. I’d been living nude for at least the last seven years, but I figured out how to make a skirt like I’d seen in travel brochures, in case I was rescued. My skin had gone leathery and dark, and I probably had skin cancer by now, but that was a concern for another day. The skirt was starting to get brittle, so I mentally added replacing it to my to-do list and lay down to a nap in the shade.

A stiff, damp breeze woke me in the late afternoon. It was coming from the west, rather than the east. A storm was brewing, and the dark skies to the west confirmed it. There wasn’t much I could do, besides ride it out. Everything that could blow away was gathered and secured to one of the posts of the hut. It swayed in the wind, and I knew the roof would be blown away again, but that was just normal. I hadn’t seen a storm quite like this one since the one that had stranded me here, though.

I carried the logbook, machete, hatchet, and spork with me to the center of the island to get as much protection from the storm as possible. The tops of the palms were already bending toward the east, dropping coconuts and losing fronds to the high winds. The rain started, coming in sideways, and I had to sit, lest I be blown over. I watched as the flags, and the pole they were tied to, flew away in the winds. Now there was nothing to differentiate this island to passing ships.

I knew, at least intellectually, that the flags made no difference. I’d been here for over ten years and never saw a ship. The shipping lanes were far away from here. Still, it snuffed out the little hope I’d had for rescue.

The ground grew muddy, and rivulets of water flowed in crazy directions all around me, driven by the shifting winds at ground level. The island was nearly flat, and the wind strong enough to push the water up whatever small gradient there was.

It was perhaps an hour later that the winds and rain stopped, and the noon sky cleared. I expected to see that I was in the eye of the storm, but it had passed me by, hitting me with the northern-most part of it. When I rose, the last foot of my braid was muddy from the point where it passed my hips.

The hut was in a shambles, only the corner posts, sturdy driftwood logs sunk deep in the earth, still standing. What I at first thought was my little catch of fish strewn across the beach turned out to be hundreds of live fish, flopping about where they’d been washed ashore.

Not one to turn down a free meal or ten, I gathered them all up, gutted them, and strung them up along with my original catch. “Thank you, storm,” I croaked. I hadn’t spoken in ages and my voice sounded foreign and strange to me.

The fish strung up, and the sun getting low on the horizon, I decided to leave rebuilding the hut for another day. I walked the island perimeter, combing the beach for anything useful that might have washed ashore. The first find was a hunk of plastic netting, brittle and degraded. I’d save that for a signal fire, as it would smoke terribly, but had no other use to me.

It was on the south side of the island that I found a treasure. A heavy-duty, waterproof, plastic box of the sort that one would carry electronics or a gun. It felt heavy enough to have something in it, possibly even a pistol. Rather than open it there, I carried it with me as I made my way back to the hut.

Exhaustion overtook me, and I set the box aside, to open in the morning. My sleep was deep, no dreams, and I woke to the rising sun far too soon. I checked on the fish, which would be sufficiently dried by the next day.

Finally, I opened the box, expecting to be disappointed. Instead, I found a small solar panel, and a satellite phone. The phone had no power, but the solar panel had a cable for charging it, so I plugged it in to do its thing. I would be rescued. All I needed to do was wait a few hours for a charge and then call…somebody.

I looked at the state of the hut. It wouldn’t matter once I made the call, but my skirt was gone, blown away in the storm. “Well,” I said aloud, my voice still croaky and unfamiliar, “I need to get ready for company.”

I spent the day gathering fronds for a skirt, and the hut, and then making the skirt. Once that was finished, I checked the sat phone’s charge. It was nearly half charged, and I figured I should let it charge all the way, so I started repairing the hut, taking a break only to chew on some mostly dried fish and a coconut.

The hut’s roof was finished, but I hadn’t started on the walls. The sun was setting, and the phone was completely charged. I picked up the phone and saw a button labeled “SOS.” I set the phone down and lay on the pile of remaining fronds. I ran a hand down my side, feeling my ribs. When they first started showing up, I worried that I was starving to death, but I’d gotten along just fine since then.

Am I really fine, though? The satellite phone sat next to me, untouched, and I wondered what was holding me back. Was it fear? Would I miss my little island? Why?

Some other part of me took over, turned on the phone, and pressed the SOS button. There was a beep, and then for a few tense seconds, no other sound.

“Maritime emergency response, do you require assistance?” The voice on the other end so surprised me that I was unable to speak for a moment. I hadn’t heard another human in so long. Tears ran down my face and I began to sob. “Emergency response, can you speak?”

“I—yes,” I croaked. “Hello.”

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

Challenge

prompt: Start your story with an unexpected knock on a window.

available at Reedsy

Sia was jolted awake by the ringing of something against the hull. There shouldn’t be any debris or asteroids in this region, but there it was again. It was…rhythmic?

She sat the pilot’s seat up in time to see a figure in a vac suit slapping their hand against the forward window. A rub of her eyes and shake of her head convinced her that she was awake, and this was real. “I’m opening the airlock.” She hoped they were in firm enough contact with the hull to hear her amplified voice vibrate through the hull and their own suit.

The airlock showed as open, but the figure stayed at the forward window. Sia pointed toward the starboard side and motioned “come in.”

Once the figure had entered the airlock and the outer door was sealed, she ran a full re-pressurization and decontamination cycle. As atmosphere built up in the airlock, she opened the intercom. “Hang tight, need to run a decon, as my medical kit is limited and I’m not in any position to deal with hazardous materials.”

The figure nodded and gave a thumbs-up gesture. The suit was bulky, old-fashioned, of the sort that went out of use at least two hundred years earlier.

“You need help to get out of that suit?”

The figure shook its hand in a “no” gesture. The helmet attachment and dark faceplate made any head movements invisible to anyone outside the suit. After turning to face away from the inner airlock door, the figure twisted the helmet and lifted it off. From the back, all Sia could make out was the black of the internal suit, as the type that would be worn with one of the antique vac suits.

The gloves were next to come off, followed by the slim, feminine figure shimmying out of the main body of the bulky suit as gracefully as possible in zero gee. As the figure turned around to face the inner door, Sia was struck by how the woman’s face looked too perfect, too symmetrical, without blemish.

Once the decon procedure completed, she opened the inner door. “I’m Sia. Who the hell are you and how did you get out here?”

“I go by the name Eva.”

“Doesn’t tell me how you got here.”

“I was doing repairs on the research vessel Amadou, researching the remains of a nearly-extinct black hole.” Eva’s expression was unchanging. “We were in a stable orbit, and I was repairing one of the external sensors when were struck by an in-falling asteroid, approximately four kilograms, but traveling fast. It knocked me off the ship and deflected the ship’s orbit toward the black hole.”

“That was a long time ago. You mean to tell me you’ve been drifting for two hundred years?”

“The Amadou was pulled into the event horizon. I watched it rip itself apart as it reached an area where the gravitational gradient was too steep to withstand. I, however, was pushed into a slingshot. When I saw your ship, I used the suit’s thrusters to put me on an intercept, then did everything I could to slow down to match your speed. If I hadn’t caught on, I’d be far beyond you by now.”

Sia shook her head. “Now you’re saying you were moving faster the Sprinter in nothing but a vac suit from the pre-super-c era?” She leaned in close and looked at Eva’s face. “If you didn’t look so fake, I might not believe you. But you’re an old android, aren’t you?”

“I am a custom-built, extra-vehicular assistant…thus Eva.”

“So why the vac suit?”

“Mostly to maintain temperature. Too warm and my circuitry may malfunction, too cold and my joints become immobile. Thus, the suit with a nuclear battery, similar to the one I operate on.”

“It’s a good thing you aren’t human,” Sia said. “I’ve only got enough oxygen and food for one.”

“What is your mission?” Eva asked.

Sia laughed. “It’s not a mission, so much as a challenge. I’m doing a solo, sub-light trip, timed from Earth to Neptune, using only an initial, twenty-minute burst of one quarter gee thrust from high earth orbit, followed by slingshot maneuvers and steering thrusters only. I was trying to beat the record, and I believe I would have.”

“What is our current location and speed?”

“A little more than four hundred kilometers per second, and less than ten hours from my final slingshot maneuver, around Saturn.”

“What is the record?”

“One hundred twenty-two days, four hours, eleven minutes, and nine seconds.”

“And your estimated completion time?”

“Ninety-three days, give or take.”

Eva squatted in a position where she could hold herself against the hull in the null gravity. “Why do you say ‘would have’ when it seems you are still on track to beat the record?”

“The record is for solo travel, without AI assistance. The addition of a passenger, or an AI, invalidates it.”

“You calculated all the maneuvers yourself?”

“I did.” Sia grunted and pulled a tablet out from beneath the pilot’s chair. “Now I have to recalculate the last slingshot for the added mass. What is your mass, anyway?”

“One hundred-eighteen point eight six kilograms, including the suit. Sixty-four of that is the suit. If you need it can be jettisoned.”

“No way. That thing is an antique, worth a lot of credits. I was going to charge you that for passage. Now hush while I work this out.”

After two hours of revision, Sia had her new flight plan in place and keyed into the navigation. She leaned the pilot’s chair back with a sigh. “All set.”

“Would it be more advantageous to you if I were to suit up and step back out?”

Sia gawped at the android clinging to the wall. “Are you nuts?! Why would you even suggest that?”

“If I were to download my data to your systems, my mission could still be completed.”

“And you what? Drift until your battery runs out of power or you slam into a piece of rock?” Sia closed her eyes. “I’m not sending out to die just to set a record.”

“But I wouldn’t really be dying, since I’m not alive.”

Sia shook her head hard, her hair coming out from under her collar to float around her face. “No. That’s not happening. Just because you don’t think you’re alive, doesn’t mean I want to eject you like junk.”

“Perhaps the limited scope of my intelligence would allow them to make an exception in your case.”

Sia pulled the tablet back out from beneath her seat and showed it to Eva. “Can you calculate the terms shown here?”

“I can.”

“Then you’re not too limited to invalidate my run,” Sia said, “but now I have an excuse to try again next year.”

“Wasn’t this trip planned based on certain orbital efficiencies? And won’t those alignments be off when you try again?”

“Yes, and yes. But,” she said, smiling, “that just makes it more of a challenge.”

Trunk Stories

Envoy

prompt: Start your story with the arrival of a strange visitor in a small town.

available at Reedsy

Despite stereotypes to the contrary, many small towns remained cold and unfriendly, wildly suspicious of strangers. Doubly so for those outside that town’s main demographic. Skin color, dress, hairstyle, even accent were all excuses to ignore or outright shun strangers. How much more so when the stranger is not even the same species?

The envoy landed quietly in the forest, far away from human eyes. This was her first assignment; assessment of humans to determine readiness to join The Community. They’d started exploring their own star system, sent noisy inquiries into the stellar void, and even sent scout drones beyond their heliopause. Depending on assessment, humans would either be allowed to communicate and trade with their neighbors or would continue to be cloaked in the no-contact order that had been in place since life first arose on the planet.

“Hello. I am Kay. Nice to meet you,” she said, practicing the local language. Her species was chosen as the closest available bipedal, laterally symmetrical, four-limbed envoy of roughly equivalent size and form as humans. She checked her flex armor and the attached recording devices. It wouldn’t do her any good if they attacked her face, but the job came with risks.

The sounds of their languages were strange, and the surgery to her vocal tract and tongue to speak them left her unable to speak her own language, or even say her own name. Still, she hoped they could bring the humans into The Community. They made a staggering amount of raw, primitive art; the kind most species had forgotten how to make, and she had studied it in-depth for many cycles now.

She knew from their moving-story-arts that walking on the road was unwise, so she kept to the shoulder. The town was a collection of small buildings, each a different style, and all built by hands and labor, not the automated printing used by much of The Community. As she walked further into town, she attracted stares.

These humans were shorter and stockier than she, their skin color dependent on the red of their blood and the amount of brown melanin they carried within. Her own skin was blue-green, shifting to purple under white light, and highly UV reactive. Their eyes were small in proportion compared to hers, while their noses were large. They had five fingers on each hand, like her, but only one opposable thumb, while she had one on each side of her hand.

Feeling that this was as good a place as any to begin, she tried talking to passersby. “Hello. I am Kay. Nice to meet you.”

Her attempts were met with stares, people crossing the street to avoid her, and rude comments. It was after one of those rude comments that a human finally stopped to talk with her.

He stopped his vehicle on the road next to her, red and blue lights flashing on top of it. The brown and tan uniform, the weapon at the waist, and the badge told her that this was an official. If the moving-story-arts were right, this person’s job was to protect people and catch lawbreakers.

“Can I help you?”

“Hello. I am Kay. Nice to meet you.”

“Hi Kay. I’m Sheriff’s Deputy Andy Berg.” His hand rested casually on his pistol, while he peered closely at her face. “That’s a neat costume and all, but this probably ain’t the town to do that in. You’re scarin’ folks.”

“It is not my intent to scare any of you. I am here as an envoy, to determine the readiness of your kind to join The Community.” As she spoke, she gestured, her odd hands catching the eyes of the deputy.

“Y—you got some sort of deformity thing?”

“No. I am not deformed, but I am also not human.”

“Do you have any ID?” he asked.

“Standard genetic ident,” she said, holding a finger out to swipe.

He pulled out a card with his picture and writing on it. “An ID, like this?”

“No, I am not in possession of such a document.”

“Let’s go to the station and get this figured out. Turn around and put your hands behind your back.”

She did as he commanded, and felt metal restraints placed on her wrists. He opened the back door of his vehicle to put her in, and she swung her arms over her head, rotating them into a more comfortable position in front of her.

“Ho—how did you do that?”

“Do your arms not move like this?” she asked.

“No, they don’t. Just…don’t do anything stupid.”

“I will not. My intelligence was a deciding factor in becoming an envoy.”

Once they arrived at the station, she allowed herself to be led in to where he pointed at a chair for her to sit in. She sat and slipped her hands out of the cuffs and handed them back to him.

“What the…?”

“Was I wrong in doing this? I apologize. I am not familiar with all of your customs.”

“Why don’t we start from the beginning? Where are you from?”

“I was raised on station 875-439, just over nine light years from here, and trained there to become an envoy. My species comes from a planet around the star you know as Gliese 876.”

Andy wrote in his notebook without looking up. “Uh-huh, I see. And what’s the name of your planet?”

“I cannot say it.” She stuck her tongue out to its full fourteen inches to point out the scars along the sides and top. He stared, surprise evident on his face. “The surgery I underwent to speak your languages has left me unable to speak my own.” She grabbed his pen and scribbled marks on the sheet he’d been writing on. “This is how the name of my planet is written. And it is also my name.”

“Lucky for me you speak English, I guess?”

“I speak about half of all human languages; 3,224 to be precise.”

“Wow, okay.” Andy studied the odd creature. “I’m really not sure what I’m supposed to do here. I should call the Feds, but they’d probably dissect you or something. I don’t think you’re a threat, though, so I won’t do that yet.”

“I thank you for not having me dissected. It would not be the first time it happened to an envoy, but I do not desire such a fate.”

Andy laughed. “I don’t think any of us want that.” He leaned closer, staring into her large eyes. “Why did you come here, rather than go to the President or the UN or somethin’?”

“My mission is not to create the trade and communication agreements. Instead, my mission is to see if humans are ready for such things.”

“I’ll be honest, I’m still kind of creeped out by you, but I’m tryin’ my best to be a good host.” He leaned back and sighed. “I’d guess, though, that based on how everybody treated you in town, your assessment is no.”

“I am but one of 300,000 envoys assessing your people over the next seven rotations of your planet. I have not amassed enough data to make a determination on my own, but the recordings made by my armor will be collated with that of my peers to make a final decision.”

“You ain’t worried some of ‘em might be killed?”

“It is likely that many will. But duty requires that I do my job to the best of my abilities.”

Andy stood. “I’m gonna grab a coffee. Want anything?”

“That is a hot drink made from a seed containing a stimulant, correct?”

“I guess that’s one way to put it.”

“I would like to try this drink.”

Andy returned with two cups of coffee and offered one to Kay. “Why didn’t they send someone that looks more…human?”

“Our species is the closest in terms of size, shape, motation, and limb number and placement. We have also determined that your foodstuffs are compatible with our species.” She sipped the drink, holding it in her mouth long enough to get a complete sense of its flavor.

“What do you think of the coffee?”

“It is bitter, but not unpleasant.” She attempted a smile, knowing it was appropriate to the situation. Due to her overly wide mouth, it merely made her even more disturbing.

In spite of his smile, his unease showed, and he quickly looked down at his coffee. “What kind of trade would we be talkin’, if we pass muster?”

Kay sniffed at the coffee. Even with her limited olfactory sense, it was a strong scent. “Rare foodstuffs like this, information, minerals, technology, labor, and art. Your first and second planets are prime candidates for material mining rights. The possibilities are limitless.”

“What happens when ya’ll decide we ain’t worthy, though?”

“Do you think that is likely?”

Andy scowled into his coffee. “Afraid so. ‘Course, I see the worst of people, because of my job.”

“If that determination is made, your scout drones currently outside your own star system will be disabled. The blockade on communication with your system will remain in place. Nothing else will change.”

“Ain’t that just how it goes? You want somethin’ to change it don’t; want it to stay the same, it changes. But at least now we know we ain’t alone.”

“Indeed. That is an unfortunate side-effect of the envoy mission. Given enough time, however, your kind will forget us, except as myths.”

“Have you…your people…been here before?”

“We are the first envoys to your world.”

“And you’re here for seven days?”

“That is correct.”

“Where you stayin’?”

“The pilot’s chair in my ship is adequate.”

“Nope. That won’t do.” Andy finished his coffee and crossed his arms. “I’ll put you up for the week. Ain’t no one else in this town going to.”

“I can tell I make you uncomfortable,” she said, “and do not wish to intrude on your space. Your offer is very kind, though.”

“You know what would make me even more uncomfortable? Knowin’ you travelled all this way to end up here and didn’t no one put you up for a few days.”

She studied his face, trying to correlate his expression with the human expressions she’d been taught. He seemed to be holding two contradicting feelings at the same time. Kay found that interesting. “I will accept your offer, if only to enjoy more of this beverage.”

He laughed. “Who knew coffee would be the thing that gets us talkin’ to aliens?” Andy raised a finger, as if to make a point. “I have an idea. We’re goin’ to the diner for breakfast. My treat, seeing how you probably don’t have any money.”

“I do not. Will there be more coffee?”

“Absolutely.” He smiled and she found it both welcoming, and somewhat threatening, as his teeth showed. “I can introduce you around to some folks, let ‘em know you ain’t dangerous. They see you havin’ eggs and grits with coffee, they’ll be more likely to talk.”

“Then I shall be glad to accompany you. Thank you.”

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 Little Bull and the Calf

prompt: Start your story with someone accepting a dare.

available at Reedsy

…[P]eer power as an extrinsic force is a lot like radiation: a little goes a long way. 

Charles D. Hayes

Some people, perhaps even most, in the situation Sam found herself would wonder how they got there. She had no trouble pinpointing the moment that led her to be sitting in an interrogation room, wrists cuffed to the table, ankles shackled to the floor. It was the simple sentence: “I dare you.”

“I’m Special Agent Angela Mackey. You’re Samira?”

“Sam.”

“Samira Thibideaux, twenty-six, from New Orleans, Louisiana, correct?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Angela leaned forward on her elbows. “You understand you’re in a lot of trouble?”

Sam nodded.

“Why did you run up on the President like that?”

“I didn’t know she was there. I saw Hector and was going to get a surprise selfie with him.”

“Wearing a cape and a ski mask?”

“Luchador mask. El Torito, his favorite. It’s a joke. Call him, he’ll tell you. We prank each other all the time…or we used to, back in high school.”

“We’ll involve Senator Valencia when we feel it’s appropriate,” Angela said. “Tell me about your day. Start from the beginning.”

#

Sam picked at her breakfast; her roommates’ chatter a warm comfort. She had the day off and had no idea how she would spend it.

“Hey Sam, that senator you went to school with is in town today.” Alicia was the unofficial “mother” of the group. “You should see if he can get some time to have coffee or something, reconnect.”

“Ooh, if you can get a selfie with him, that would boost your Insta.” Trish was, to all appearances, a shallow, vain, young woman, with little interest in anything beyond fashion and fun. “But not a plain selfie, you should do something wild.”

“She doesn’t have to do anything wild or ‘boost her Insta.’ If Sam wants to hang out with her friend, she should.”

“What’s Henry in to?”

“His name is Hector, and he was always into Lucha Libre. His favorite wrestler since grade school was ‘El Torito’—a little guy who fought like a bull. He told me in third grade that he sometimes had nightmares that he’d made El Torito mad, and he was coming to get him.” Sam turned to her phone to text Hector and stop herself from divulging yet more personal information.

Alicia began collecting the dishes. “I have to work a double today. Sam, tell Hector I said ‘Hi.’ Trish, try not to burn down the house.”

“Hey! That was one time in college, the dorm didn’t burn down, and it wasn’t my fault. I’m not the one that left a rag on the hotplate.” Trish scrolled through her phone, absorbed in whatever took her fancy at the moment.

“But you are the one that plugged it in without checking,” Alicia said.

“I’ll handle the dishes,” Sam said. “Have a good day at work.” In short order, Sam had the kitchen back to its normal, pristine state.

“Your phone went off while you were in the kitchen.” Trish held something behind her back. “Your friend says he’ll be at the coffee shop on 14th at two this afternoon.”

“What’re you hiding?”

“Oh!” Trish showed her phone to Sam. “This is the guy your friend likes, right?”

Sam nodded. “Yeah, El Torito.”

Trish put her phone away. “Good. We’re going shopping before you meet your friend.”

“Why do you keep saying ‘your friend?’ His name is Hector.”

“Because it doesn’t sound like a real name when I say it.”

Sam sighed. “You’re weird. Why do we need to go shopping?”

“I know you think that Insta is a waste of your time, but it’s tied to your other online stuff, right?”

“Yeah, and?”

“How do you think you’ll get those freelance editing jobs if no one even knows you exist?”

“So, you’re trying to help?”

“I am.” Trish could be sincere and convincing when needed. “I’ll get you just enough internet fame to get jobs rolling into your inbox, hopefully without too many Insta creeps.”

“Fine, let’s go shopping. I guess I need to get something classier than my jeans and hoodies, huh?”

“Uh, yeah…classy.”

#

They stood in front of the store. Sam looked at Trish, unable to form the question that played across her face.

“Trust me, okay. This’ll be fun.” Trish gave a little tug to Sam’s hand and led her inside.

“This is a costume store.”

“And they have something waiting for you.” Trish walked in and called out in her best party-girl, carry-over-the-crowd voice, “Who’s got the El Tortilla mask?”

“El Torito.”

“Whatever, they know what I mean.”

Sam spent the next fifteen minutes feeling like the third wheel as Trish and the saleswoman talked about clubs, parties, brands, makeup, celebrities, and random trivia. Finally, the saleswoman brought out a bag containing a red cape and a luchador mask that was a close, if not perfect, replica of the mask worn by El Torito.

As they left the store, Trish having paid for the costume, Sam said, “Nice of her to let you use her employee discount. Why didn’t you introduce me?”

“Who? The chick that works there? I don’t know her.”

“I—I have no words.”

At the coffee shop, Sam looked in the bag, then back at Trish. “This is ridiculous. I’m not doing it.”

“You think he’ll be mad?”

“I mean, he’d probably think it’s pretty funny, but I’m not sure about it.”

Trish leaned close. “You’ve known the guy forever. You even know his favorite lecher-whatsit.”

“Luchador.”

“Whatever. This’ll blow up on Insta. And his team will probably tweet it, get you noticed. Unless you’re scared of him, or afraid he’s forgotten you.”

“I’m not scared of him, and we literally texted less than four hours ago. He hasn’t forgotten me.”

Trish leaned back and took a sip of her latte. She looked Sam in the eyes and said, “I dare you.”

“Ugh, fine.” Sam retreated to the restroom and put on the costume, waiting for the text from Trish that they were there. In a matter of minutes, it came: “They’re here. Streaming. Go time!”

She peeked out from the restroom and saw him, his back to her, with several other men and women in suits. She took a deep breath for courage, then burst into the main room shouting El Torito’s tag line, “¡Cuidado con los cuernos!”

Sam was no more than three steps into the room when she found herself face-down, covered by two large men who had her cuffed before she knew what had happened. The President’s shocked face swam into her vision and her heart dropped through the floor. “Hector! It’s me. I’m so sorry, Madame President!”

#

The interrogation room she found herself in was in a nondescript office building, not the police station. The fact that she hadn’t spoken to anyone other than Secret Service agents so far led her to believe that she was in a deeper hole than she could ever get out of.

“What happens now?” she asked. “Do I go to Guantanamo? Disappear?”

“Sit tight.” Angela left the room without saying anything else.

The minutes dragged on, and Sam feared the worst. She looked up at the camera in the corner of the room. “Please? Call Hector Valencia? Please?”

It was an hour later when a large man in a suit entered, carrying a briefcase. “Ms. Thibideaux? I’m an attorney. Let’s talk about your options.”

“No you’re not,” Sam said. “I saw you at the coffee shop. You’re trying to trick me into saying something incriminating, even though I haven’t done anything.”

He sighed and waved at the camera. The door opened again, and another agent entered, with Trish. She wasn’t in cuffs, but she looked like she was holding in tears.

“Hey, Sam.” Her voice was barely above a whisper.

“At least you got a funny stream out of it, at my expense.”

She looked down at her phone, dark and silent in her hand, and shook her head.

“I want a real attorney.” Sam would have crossed her arms if she weren’t chained to the table. “You’ll back me up in court, right Trish?”

“Please.” The agent who had claimed to be her attorney raised a hand. “You won’t see a courtroom.”

“Oh god, I’m going to disappear!”

The door opened and Hector walked in, holding the mask and cape. “All right, guys, that’s enough. Let her go. I win this one, Sam.”

The agent freed her wrists and ankles, chuckling quietly. “We figured out you weren’t a threat after the FBI searched your apartment, but Senator Valencia wanted us to wait until he got here to tell you.”

“After they searched…?”

“They finished up about fifteen minutes ago,” the agent said. “The senator has your phone, by the way.”

“When you wanted to meet up, I knew you’d try something silly, but not this silly.” Hector handed her the costume and looked at Trish. “Thanks for not spilling the beans before I got here.”

Trish broke down, laughing so hard tears streamed down, smearing her mascara. “Sorry, sorry. Can’t stop laughing. The stream went viral! And the President just tweeted that it was quote, ‘An ill-timed prank, no harm done,’ end quote.”

Hector gave Sam a hug. “It’s good to see you after so long.”

“You too. Sorry I couldn’t surprise you with El Torito the way I wanted to.”

“Oh, I was surprised, all right. Put that on, and let’s get a couple selfies for your fans.”

“My what?”

“They’re calling you ‘La Ternera’ online.”

“What is that?”

“The calf. You are smaller than even El Torito.” Hector put an arm around her shoulder and snapped a selfie with her phone.

Sam was glad of the luchador mask to cover her blush of anger at herself and knowing that a friend she respected had seen her mess up a simple prank so terribly.

“Let’s get some without…,” Hector reached for her mask and lifted it off. “Are you all right, Sam?” Hector’s voice was soft. “I went too far, didn’t I?”

Sam sniffled, then chuckled. “I guess it’s payback for the fake murder victim in the back of your car, senior year.” She broke off the pose and tried to fix her hair and compose herself.

“I never got the fake blood out of the seats,” he said. “It makes a great story, though.”

“Truce?”

Hector pulled her back in for another couple selfies with her phone. “Truce. I’ll be down for Christmas. We’ll have a big get-together. Craw-fish boil, gumbo, red beans and rice, tamales, gingerbread cookies, and buñuelos.”

“You know your family has the weirdest Christmas menu ever, right?”

“I know, but you love it.”

Trish was typing furiously on her phone. “This is so awesome! I can’t wait for Christmas! Alicia says she’s down too!” She paused and looked at the others. “I mean, um, am I…are we invited?”

“My friends,” Sam said. “They won’t let me be, and I’d never hear the end of it.”

“Hmm.” Hector leaned in close and whispered to Sam, “Only if we can prank her together. She told me this was her idea.”

“You’re right.” Sam stood straight. “Tell Alicia that both of you are invited. Details when it gets closer to Christmas.”

Trish returned to typing on her phone. “This is exciting! I’m having Christmas dinner with a Senator!”

“Gentlemen, could you escort the ladies out?” Hector asked the agents. “I need to get back to my schedule, and I’m sure they have other places to be. Thanks again for waiting for me.”

#

Alicia returned in the evening to find Trish picking up the items scattered about the living room. “What the hell? Where’s Sam?”

“I didn’t do it, FBI did. Sam’s hiding in her room. She’s a little overwhelmed with the whole La Termina thing.”

“La Ternera.”

“Whatever.” Trish pointed at the open bottle of wine on the counter. “Her friend left that for us as an apology.”

Alicia sighed and poured herself a glass of wine. “I’ll go calm her down.”

“Hey, can you, um, tell her I’m really sorry. And not just for the dare, but the laughing too.” Trish sniffled. “It was scary, but I couldn’t stop laughing. I think I might have hurt her feelings.”

Alicia heard a muffled snort from Sam’s room. “I’ll tell her, but I think she’s okay.”

Trunk Stories

Damn Wizards

prompt: Write your story about two characters tidying up after a party.

available at Reedsy

The Palace Hotel Grand Ballroom was most decidedly not grand that morning. Morning light spilled through the huge windows that overlooked the bay to cast rays on the detritus of the previous night’s soirée. Overturned tables and chairs, spills and stains on the carpets, half of the draperies ripped from the windows, and above it all, the smell of stale champagne and spilled booze.

“You ever notice,” Karl asked, “that the richer the party, the worse the mess?”

Sera knew what he was getting at, but she’d let him explain himself, again, in order to keep the peace. It wasn’t that she hated him, but he often pushed her close to it. “How so?”

“The union workers that had their thing here last week, for instance. There was some spillage where the kegs were, but all the trash was in the bins, and they even cleaned off the tables and stacked the chairs up.”

She nodded. Their efforts had been appreciated, but still made more work for them to take all the chairs down to clean them properly.

“But look at this,” he said, throwing his arms out wide, as if she’d been ignoring it all along. “Some wizard politician and all her rich cronies come in here, lording it over everyone like they’re the most civilized and elegant people in the world, and what do we get? Destruction. Damn wizards.”

“She’s not a wizard,” Sera countered, “she’s an elf. I don’t know where you get this idea.”

“Well, yeah, not all elves,” he said. “I mean, you’re not a wizard, or else you wouldn’t be cleaning up after ‘em with me. You’re one of the good ones.”

The sigh of exasperation left Sera’s lips before she could stop it. “Karl, you really need to check yourself before you say things like that. Jik hears you, it’ll be a trip to HR, and not a happy one.”

“Yeah, well, boss is a wizard too, so I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“Wait, so now Jik’s a wizard too? Because he’s an orc? What do you think a wizard is? Anyone that’s not a human?”

“No, of course not. Most elves are, and I saw boss making a coin disappear and reappear; showing off for his kids.”

“First, some elves, not most, have some latent magical talent. Same with all the other races, including humans. That does not make them wizards. Being a wizard is about life-long study and mastery. Second, most actual wizards are humans. And third, the boss does sleight of hand tricks, not magic. Hell, he could probably teach you how to do it this afternoon if you asked.”

“Nuh-uh, no way, no how. I’m not messing with anything magic. Too dangerous.” Karl ended the conversation by busying himself collecting all the bottles for recycling.

Sera began collecting the wine stems, champagne flutes, shot glasses, and other assorted dishes into bus tubs. By the time she’d finished, Karl had removed the remaining drapes to be washed and was gathering the tablecloths.

As they worked, they piled lost items on the table farthest from the door. It would be the last to be folded and carted out, and they could run them to lost and found then. Sera sprayed the chairs with disinfectant and placed them in ten chair stacks near the large doors.

Karl flipped a coin. “Heads or tails?”

“Tails.”

They watched the coin land on the floor, heads up. “Sorry,” Karl said, “looks like you’re spot-cleaning the carpet while I stack tables on the cart.”

Sera was through nearly half of the ballroom. Most of the spots came up fine, but there were a few that stubbornly refused to be cleaned. “I don’t know what this purple stuff is, but it’s not coming up.”

“So much for stain-proof carpeting, eh?” Karl made notes on the work order. “Well, if they have to replace it those wizards can afford to pay for it.”

Rather than get back into that discussion again, Sera finished up the spot she was working on. “It’s lunch, let’s take a break.”

“Coffee?” Karl asked.

“Sure.”

He left and returned with two cups of coffee from reception. “And I think I’ll spice mine up a little.” Karl picked up a whiskey bottle with two fingers left in the bottom. “Found this under one the tables.”

“Really? In the middle of the day?” Sera shook her head. “None for me, thanks.”

Karl shrugged and poured the remnants of the bottle into his coffee and took a sip. “That’s a nice cup of coffee.”

Sera looked over the table of lost items while she ate her brown-bag lunch. Two cellphones, a leather clutch full of makeup, a device that resembled a toothbrush with a cloth head that she knew was a tusk polisher, several key cards from the hotel, a pair of women’s undies, an expensive strappy stiletto, and an odd dark glass bottle.

“Looks like Cinderella was at the ball, huh?”

Karl looked confused. “What are you talking about?”

She picked up the shoe. “Cinderella, like the story?”

“Except it’s not glass,” he said around a mouthful of egg salad sandwich.

Sera finished her pot noodles and looked over the items on the table. The bottle kept calling to her. “I wonder what’s in the bottle.”

“Probably some perfume that costs more than we make in a year.” Karl belched. “The kind that stinks to high heaven, but rich old biddies splash it on like it’s the best smelling thing ever.”

“You’ve got a real problem with anything expensive or anyone rich, don’t you?”

“Nah, I just wouldn’t be all ‘look at me’ about it if I was rich.” He belched again. “Wouldn’t change the way I act at all.”

“I can believe that.” Sera picked up the bottle. It felt cool in her hand, too cool. “Feel this,” she said, “I don’t know what kind of glass it is, but it’s cool to the touch.”

Karl put his hand on the bottle. “Doesn’t feel cool to me, just cold glass. Nothing cool about that.”

Sera pulled the stopper out of the top, curious about its contents. A mist rose from the bottle, and they felt it grow even colder in their hands. Out of the mist came a feminine figure and strident voice.

“Damnit, Horace! You promised me….” She stopped short and looked around. “Who are you? Where’s Horace?” To appearances she was a slight human woman with a dark, Mediterranean complexion and tightly curled dark hair. Dark circles under her deep brown eyes hinted at exhaustion.

“I’m Sera, and this is Karl. We were cleaning up and found this.” She held up the bottle. “What’s your name?”

“I don’t know. Can’t remember.” She walked around the room, looking behind the cart of folded tables, the stacks of chairs, under the table with the other lost items, her movements becoming more agitated.

“What are you looking for?” Sera asked.

“He’s really not here?”

“No, it’s just the two of us. Who is Horace?”

“A fat, ugly, good-for-nothing wizard.”

“See?” Karl pointed at the woman from the bottle. “I told you! Damn wizards!”

Sera ignored Karl’s outburst. He’d be insufferable for the next week at least. “What is his relationship to you?”

“As of now, nothing. He left me behind, you found me. I belong to you now.” She sat cross-legged on the floor.

“What does that mean?” Karl asked.

“I was cursed, nearly three thousand years ago, to be trapped in this bottle. I’m cursed and belong to whomever owns the bottle, until they lose it. Part of the curse is that my powers must be used to grant one wish from every person that opens my bottle.”

“So, since Horace lost you, doesn’t that mean you’re free?” Sera set the bottle gently back on the table.

“No. You two found and opened it next, so I belong to you now.” She lay back on the floor. “Horace likes… liked to pass me around at functions, trading wishes for influence or future favors.”

“He pimped you out.” Sera’s jaw tightened.

“That’s a very gentle way of putting it,” she said.

Karl butted in before Sera could speak. “I wish to be rich enough to retire right now!”

“Done.” She raised a hand holding a stack of papers.

“What’s all this?”

“This is a real estate flyer for a foreclosed off-grid cabin in the Yukon for two-hundred dollars, a list of supplies you’ll need to survive, and a thirty-percent off coupon for all purchases at the outfitter in Whitehorse to get all those supplies.” She gave him a cold smile, her eyes closed. “That’s an easy one. You already had what you wished for, I just showed you how.”

Karl’s face drained of color. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it!”

Sera laughed. “Be careful what you wish for, lest you get it.”

The small woman rose and looked at Karl. “I’m not the one who made the rules. The king’s nephew who cursed me, however, had a warped sense of humor.”

“Can you explain?” Sera asked. “Unless you don’t want to talk about it.”

“It was a long time ago.” She sat on the table next to her jar. “I was a consort to the king of a small nation bordering the Kassite Babylonians. As a djinn, I was expected to do the king’s bidding.”

Sera stopped her. “You’re an actual djinn? Like the myths?”

“No, that was my title. I was a court mage. So was the king’s nephew.” The smile that crossed her face was sad. “I refused to kill the Kassite king with my magic, so he locked me up until his nephew could imprison me in the bottle and force me to do the king’s bidding. It was his nephew that made the one wish rule, no bringing back the dead, and to follow to the letter the wish.”

“Why all the weirdness with the rules?” Karl asked, waving the bundle of papers.

“The king’s nephew was next in line for the throne, unless the king’s son were to be resurrected, or the king wished for a son, or the king wished the nephew dead.” She shook her head. “He also blocked most of my memories, except for denying the king’s order, and everything that came after. Still, I found a way to rebel.

“The king’s wish was, ‘I wish for the Kassite king to die.’ So, I declared it done and was pulled back into the bottle. When he next came to me, furious that his enemy was still alive, I reminded him that his wish was already true, the king will die, as will everyone else.”

“Wait,” Karl broke in, “can I change my wish? I know how to say it now.”

“Sorry, one shot is all you get.”

Karl threw his half-eaten sandwich in the trash and downed the rest of his spiked coffee. “Damn wizards.”

Sera sat on the table next to the small woman. “Is there any way to break the curse?”

“Yes, but I can’t speak it, write it, sing it, or act it out.”

Sera sat quietly pondering the woman’s plight. She pursed her lips, her eyes staring into nothing in the middle distance.

“If you’re not going to make a wish, could you order me back into my bottle, please? I’m exhausted after the way I was used last night.”

Sera put her arm around the slender shoulders of the woman. “I want to help you. No one deserves to be locked up and used for any reason. Especially for refusing to kill. How can I help you?”

“I—I can’t tell you how.” Tears streamed down her face. “Everyone else who tried eventually gave up, except Horace. He knew how, but thought I was more use to him as a wish factory. Thank you for thinking of me, but please make your wish and allow me to sleep. Then hide me away for a century or more?”

“I think I know how to handle this.” Sera took her hands. “I wish to have, right here, right now, all the knowledge, skills, resources, and power needed to remove your curse.”

Karl let out a yelp. “What the hell? I’m glowing! So are you!”

Sera felt the power flowing through her. She saw the curse placed on the woman… Anunit was her name. “Karl, get your wizard ass over here and help me out.”

“I—I’m a wizard,” he said.

“Yes, you are. Now get over and help me.” Sera placed her hands on Anunit’s head. “I need you to put your hands on my back, let your energy flow through me and mingle with mine. Whatever you do, don’t let go until it’s over.”

Karl did as she directed. The room grew increasingly bright. Sera’s ears rang with a high-pitched whine that threatened to deafen her. Anunit’s memories flowed through her hands, back into the place they belonged.

“Anunit, daughter of Urbau, I declare your penance paid in full and release you from your prison. By the power of all the king’s mages, you are free.”

The bottle shattered into hundreds of shards and Anunit collapsed. Karl dropped to his knees, exhausted, while Sera panted, trying to catch her breath.

“You did it,” Karl said. “And we’re both wizards now?”

Sera laughed. “Yeah, I guess we are.”

Karl recovered faster than Sera. “Stand back, I’m going to try something.”

“Um, maybe you shouldn’t…”

The remaining tables folded and stacked themselves on the cart. The shards of the broken bottle swirled into the air and dropped into the trash bag which closed and tied itself after.

“See, no big deal,” he said. Karl reeled on his feet, then sat on the floor with a heavy thump. “Whoa, woozy.”

“No big deal, huh? And what about not wanting anything to do with magic?”

“Hah, had to try at least.” Karl looked at his hands as if seeing them for the first time, a stupid grin plastered on his face. “I’m a wizard.”

Sera helped Anunit sit back up. “Are you okay?”

“I—I am.” She hugged Sera. “I wish I could repay you, but….”

“No, no. I think we’ve all had our fill of wishes today.”

Anunit nodded. “Thank you, anyway.”

“Do you have a place to go?” Sera asked. “No, of course not. You can stay with me until you get on your feet.”

“I’d like that,” she said. “I need to learn more about the current world anyway and create an identity for myself. It may take some time.”

“Take all the time you need.”

Anunit patted Karl on the shoulder. “Well, now you can learn all about money management and savings and use that knowledge to power the magic you need to get the kind of retirement you’re looking for.”

Karl lay back on the floor and grunted. “Damn wizards.”

Trunk Stories

Pair Bonded

prompt: Write a story set in a city where the power suddenly goes out, leaving everyone in darkness.

available at Reedsy

Curfew had less to do with safety or control of the citizens than an innate fear of the dark. The ruling elite, all grens, instituted the curfew to avoid having to go out in the dark, forcing the working class, including the naturally nocturnal baras, to toil away under the sun. As that sun set, the city was awash in streetlights, floodlights, and the lights from windows where the grens huddled in comfort.

Philbert was, to his mind, quite a dashing gren; not too tall, suitably bulky, with iridescent green and gold fur. He cut a handsome figure in his police uniform, and it was only a matter of time until he’d be promoted to a position where he’d never again have to go on night patrol. Just the thought of it raised his hackles and made his large, round ears twitch.

He settled himself, smoothing his fur with his long fingers and patting his pistol in its holster, imagining her inspecting him. Curfew, and with it his shift, was less than an hour away. Philbert made his way to the station, the crowds in his neighborhood growing as people made their way home. Most of his neighbors were baras, as it wasn’t the best neighborhood. They streamed past him, tall and lithe, slick black fur, pointed ears, and every one of them wearing heavy goggles against the light of the sun.

A group of baras was standing around near the station, four males vying for the attention of the female he saw there most days. Screwing up courage he didn’t possess, Philbert approached the group. “Hey folks, curfew is almost here. You should probably head home. Wouldn’t want to have to arrest any of you.” He laughed a nervous laugh, hoping they’d take it as a joke rather than the spur-of-the-moment bluster it was.

“No sir,” the large female said, “you don’t want to arrest any of us. So scared your eyes are all pupil, can’t hardly see the yellow.” The group laughed, throwing their heads back. The males, smaller than the female, had a bright blue stripe at the base of their neck, while the female had none.

Philbert put his hand on his pistol. “Just trying to be friendly. Don’t push me.”

 “Hey little guy,” she said, “you should stay out of female business and leave it to the ladies. Where’s your one and only to protect you, huh?” The group laughed again. “I’m just trying to decide which of my boys I’m going home with tonight, unless you think you have a shot?” The laughter this time was harsh.

“I said, ‘Don’t push me.’” Philbert’s grip on his pistol tightened and the spurs on his wrists extended. A firm hand on his shoulder stopped him.

“Move it along, please,” the tall female gren said. Her brown fur with cream spots was immaculate, her eyes the brightest yellow and her ears had magnificent tufts of cream fur. It was her.

The group left, laughing. Philbert let out a sigh. “Thanks, Sergeant Plia.”

“No problem.” Plia patted him on the back. “Rina is out sick, so you can work the desk tonight if you don’t want to patrol solo.”

“I can do a solo patrol,” he said, with the most bravado he could muster. She was out of his league for now, but he was determined to change that. Unlike the baras with their harems, grens mated for life, as it should be, and males like Philbert did everything they could to be an ideal mate for powerful females like Plia. It helped that the male-female ratio of grens was close to even while male baras outnumbered females nearly five to one.

“Clock in and take the down-east foot patrol tonight.” Plia ran a hand along his ear, both calming and exciting him at the same time. “Think you can handle that, Phil?”

He puffed out his chest. “Yes, Plia… uh, Sergeant.”

“Just a suggestion,” she said. “Don’t try to intimidate a female bara when she’s with her harem. Forces her to stand up to you.”

Philbert nodded. His heart, so light a moment ago at her touch now dropped like a lead weight into his belly. “Thank you, Sergeant.”

By not looking at the sky, Philbert was able to walk his rounds without being too spooked. The massive streetlights and floodlights provided almost as much illumination as an overcast day. The little scurrying animals in the alleys gave him the willies, though. Four-footed, scampering animals that didn’t even lay eggs. Their young came right out of them fully formed, with long teeth for gnawing and biting. Some people kept them as pets, but they were just so disgusting.

It was on his third trip around the neighborhood when the lights went out. Every streetlight, floodlight, window, and sign went dark. No moonlight or stars, as the overcast sky hid them. Philbert began to shiver.

His ears swiveled forward and back, alerting on every little sound. The shuffle of the four-footed creatures, the click of beetles, the sounds of grens in the apartments above scrambling to find candles while the baras in their apartments whooped with joy.

One sound, though, he wasn’t expecting. She sounded like the female bara he’d encountered in front of the station. “You okay there, little guy?”

His hackles raised and the spurs on his wrists extended, but he felt himself unable to move. “Wh—who’s there?”

“I’m Lyla, and you’re Phil, right?”

He turned around slowly, unable to see anything. “It’s, uh, Philbert.” His hand found his flashlight and he turned it on. It was the female from earlier, but she wasn’t wearing her goggles. Her large eyes reflected the light back like warning beacons before she held her hand up to block the light.

“Ow! Turn that thing off! Are you trying to blind me?”

He turned it off without a thought to do otherwise. “No, I…, I can’t see anything.”

“Well, now neither can I. Give me a minute to readjust, and I’ll get you home.”

“Is your ha—harem around?”

“No, they’re being good boys and staying home. Maybe. Or they’re off playing with some other female. Either way, they aren’t here.”

“Why are you out?”

“Do you have any idea how rare it is to be able to see the city? I mean really see it?”

“Uh, yeah. I used to work days like a normal person.”

“Imagine trying to navigate the city while having a searchlight pointed in your eyes.” Lyla placed a hand on his shoulder. It was far gentler and more comforting than he would have guessed.

“That would, uh, make me blind.”

“Exactly. Hurts like hell. We don’t have daytime eyes like you, but we don’t make the rules in this part of the country.” She cocked her head. “Now that I can really see you, you’re pretty fancy. I think I’m going to have to call you Fancy from now on.”

Philbert’s eyes strained, but he was beginning to see at least vague outlines. “I can see a little bit,” he said, “but not very well.”

“That’s good. Come on, Fancy, let’s get you back to the station, huh?”

“Are—are you turning yourself in for breaking curfew?”

Her laugh was gentle. “No, silly. I’m just getting the poor male back home before something terrible happens to him.” She rubbed his back, which he found oddly comforting. “I’m a proper female who cares for her males.”

Philbert stiffened. Did she just select me for her harem? She’s not even a gren. And those pointy ears, and those eyes. He turned to face her, and got as close as he dared, trying to see her eyes. They were dark orbs, not the glowing terrors he had imagined.

“Let’s go Fancy,” she brushed his ear as Plia had done earlier. “I want to get you back before I get accused of kidnapping a police officer.”

Philbert accepted her offered hand, their fingers intertwined, and let her lead him. After a few stumbles on curbs and uneven sidewalks, Lyla put her arm around his shoulder and held him close. Instinctively, he put his arm around her waist and let himself be led. She wasn’t the beauty that Plia was, but there was something about her that pulled him in.

“Lyla, what did you mean when you said your males?”

Lyla led him to a park bench and sat with him. She faced him, placing her hands along both sides of his face. “Oh, little Fancy. Want to join my harem?”

“No, I uh…, I mean…,” he wasn’t sure what he meant. “I’m confused.”

“Oh, you poor thing. Lyla will take care of you, until you find your one and only, if that’s what you want.”

“You scared me before,” he said, “but you’re so comforting. Maybe even more than Plia.”

“She’s the female that has all the males in the station strutting about, right?”

He nodded, embarrassed by the transparency of his gender.

“You’ll never win her over.” She stroked his ears. “She’s been making nesting eyes at one of the city council.”

“How—how do you know that?”

“I work in City Hall.” She chuckled. “When you’re just the bara that cleans the toilets and dumps the trash, you see everything.”

The clouds parted and moonlight pierced the sky, brighter than Philbert could have imagined. Stars began to peek out from the breaking clouds. He’d never seen anything like it.

Lyla turned her eyes to the sky, the moonlight reflecting bright purple in her eyes, and making her black fur gleam. “I’ve missed this. It’s beautiful.”

“It is,” he said staring, captivated by her eyes. He found himself thinking unnatural thoughts about her.

Lyla turned back to him and stroked his ears again. “I usually prefer my boys taller and thinner, but I think we could get along quite well.”

“You mean that?”

“I do, little Fancy.”

“Even if it means I pair-bond with you?”

“Does it mean I have to give up my harem?”

He laughed. “I can’t believe I’m saying it, but no, it doesn’t. You just feel right. I know it’s unnatural, but—”

She shushed him and pulled him to a warm embrace. “Does this feel unnatural to you?”

He melted into her strong arms, feeling protected, secure. In that moment, she was the female of his dreams; his one and only. “No, it doesn’t.”

They held each other for another hour, until the city lights began turning back on, and Lyla had to put her goggles back on. Philbert’s heart ached when the bright orbs were hidden from his view.

“Well, I didn’t get you back to the station, but I kept you safe. Feel better, Fancy?”

“I do. But you say that like you’re leaving me.”

“I’m giving you the option to back out.” She rubbed his ears again. “Come see me tomorrow at the same spot you met me. I’ll be alone, and you can give me your decision in the full light of day.”

Philbert nodded. “I’ll see you then. You should, uh, probably get home before another patrol comes around. Hate for you to be arrested.”

“I know how to stay out of trouble,” she said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

At the end of shift, Philbert watched the other unbonded males as they reported to Plia. They puffed up as they spoke to her, putting on their most cheery demeanor. Away from the presence of the only eligible female in the station, however, their moods were much more sullen, the blackout having sapped their spirit.

Corporal Keeri, a pair-bonded female, stopped him on his way to make his report. “You look down, Philbert. If you want to turn the sergeant’s head, you should act more confident. She’s obviously picky, or she’d be bonded by now. Handsome guy like yourself might have a chance if you cheer up.”

“Thanks, Keeri, but I heard she already has eyes for someone else.”

“Where did you hear that?”

“Ly—a friend that works in City Hall.”

“You know, when I bonded, my boy was just like you.” She gave him a pat on the rear before turning her attention to two officers that were fighting with a male bara to get him to look at the camera. “Don’t take his guff! Take those damn goggles off and hit him with the flash until he behaves!”

“Corporal! Do you have any idea how painful that is for them?” Philbert wasn’t sure where this assertiveness to a female, and a superior at that, was coming from. “It’s like being forced to stare at the sun!”

“Got a soft-spot for tall, dark, and skinny, eh?” Keeri shook her head. “Figures. Go see the sergeant and give her your report.”

Philbert walked into the sergeant’s office, his head held high, his fur smooth, his chest resolutely not puffed up. “Philbert reporting. No activity in the down-east on my watch.”

“And during the power outage?”

“Used my flashlight, stayed to the main roads.”

“Good job, Phil.” Plia cocked her head. “I notice you’re not posturing. Did you pair-bond and I didn’t hear about it?”

“Ye—no, not… maybe.” He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. I know you’re interested in someone in City Hall. I’m no competition.”

“As curious as I am how you know about Gillam, I’m more curious about how you answered my question. Did sweet little Phil find himself a one and only, or not?”

“I’m… not sure.”

“Let me know when you figure it out. Now get your cute little self out of my face. See you at sundown.”

“One other thing, Sergeant.” He screwed up his courage and let it out. “Keeri and some of the others are torturing the bara in booking. Purposely flashing the camera in his eyes with his goggles off. I know… baras. This is incredibly painful for them.”

“That took some bones to let me know, Philbert.” She tilted her head and studied him from head to toe. “Thank you. I’ll deal with it.”

She used my full name! And she was checking me out! Do I have a chance? Philbert stopped his runaway thoughts. There was no way he could compare to a city council member.

Philbert tossed and turned for hours before sleep came. He dreamt that Plia came to him with open arms. She embraced him and he felt tense, frightened. When she morphed into Lyla, he relaxed, overwhelmed with a sense of comfort and security.

The alarm jolted him awake, and he felt the bed beside him, but no one was there. He sighed as he realized it had been a dream. He shook himself awake and washed up, grooming his fur carefully. Where he had been imagining Plia the previous morning while doing this, he couldn’t get Lyla out of his mind. I would have to share. Can I?

He arrived at the station early to wait for Lyla. He smoothed his uniform and fur, and stood tall, his chest puffed out. A sharp whistle caught his attention.

“Hey, pretty boy! Wanna ride?” It was a female gren, driving a sports car, her fur grey at the temples. The ring in her ear marked her as a widow, no doubt desperate for a new male to pair-bond with.

Philbert shook his head and turned away from her.

“Tease! Pair-bonded boy out here struttin’ like you’re lookin’ for something. Your female should take you over her knee and….”

He stopped listening to her and she finally drove off in a squeal of tires. He deflated, his head and shoulders drooped. Who am I kidding? Lyla hadn’t been serious; she was just trying to keep him from arresting her. There was no way she was interested.

“Hey, Fancy. You feeling down?”

Philbert jerked to attention and looked up at her. “You came?”

“I said I would.”

He shivered, his hair fluffing out. “You meant it?”

“Of course I did.” She smoothed the fur on his ears. “I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t.”

Her touch calmed him, and it took everything he had not to melt into her. “What if you get tired of me?”

Lyla lifted his face to hers. “I can only promise that I’ll do everything in my power not to hurt you. Except for monogamy. I can’t do that.”

“But… I’ll be at the bottom of the harem, the last in line for your attention.”

“It’s not like that,” she said. “Sure, there’ll be times when I’m with another boy in the harem, or outside it, even. But I always make time for my males. All of them. I have to be honest with you, though….”

Here it comes. His shoulders dropped in anticipation of the bad news.

“I’m only staying in the city for another year, maybe two, before I move back to my mother’s nut farm.” She stroked his ears. “It’s out in the country, there’s no curfew, and it’s mostly bara, but there’s quite a few gren there too. I’m sure you could get a job in the constable’s office, no problem. Big city police officer and all that.

“I want to start on my brood soon, just not in the city.”

“I—I thought it was going to be something bad.” He stood straight, looked up at her, and puffed out his chest. “Yes, if you’ll have me.”

Philbert fell into her embrace, feeling secure, even as the comments of passing females reached his ears. “Disgusting!” “Unnatural.” “Another gren male ruined.” He looked up to see her focused entirely on him.

She whispered in his ear, “You should get to work now. If you’re down-east again tonight, I’ll see you in the park.”

He nodded and left her, feeling light. Plia stopped him. “Ignore the jealous females. If you’re happy, that’s all that matters. So, that’s who you’re maybe pair-bonded with?”

“Yeah. But no maybe about it.”

Trunk Stories

Take Me Home

prompt: Write about someone going to extreme lengths to return an overdue library book.

available at Reedsy

(With apologies to John Denver)

Martin was the opposite of every stereotypical thing one might think on first glance. He was not the curious, inventive, clever, gregarious, outgoing gnome that most people expected. He was shy, unimaginative, more at home buried in a book than any social situation, and he was painfully lonely.

As much as he desired friends, no one he’d ever met gave him the chance to open up, expecting too much too soon. University was meant to be his chance to make a friend or two. After three years with no success, he decided to learn mixology. At least he’d be able to be involved in the parties, even if he couldn’t bring himself to speak.

His skills tending bar in those parties landed him a job as a bartender on graduation. An elf in his dorm found him a job, and a place to live, at his great-great-grandmother’s place in the city. His degree in Comparative Philology on the other hand, wasn’t doing anything for him in that regard.

True to form, Martin skipped the ceremony and picked up his diploma from the Dean’s office. He moved off campus early in the morning, before the magic library opened. The academic library was opened, so he dropped the mixology book, Master Mixology: 613 Enchanting Cocktails, at the academic library. Why he’d found it in the magic library he wasn’t sure; it was just a collection of drinks recipes with weird names. He’d memorized all of them in the month he’d had the book checked out.

To his dismay, when he unpacked at his new flat, the book was in his things. Maybe he’d left one of his own mixology books by accident. Not that it mattered much, as he memorized every drink recipe he’d ever read; over two thousand drinks. He opened the book and checked the stamp on the inside back cover. It was due that day.

He wasn’t sure what the overdue penalties were, but they were bound to be less painful than missing his first day at a new job. Martin decided he had time to go to the post office before work. Once there, he wrapped the book carefully and paid for express post to the magic library at the university, along with a return envelope in which they could send him a bill for the late fee.

Satisfied he’d handled that, he went back to the bar and began his first night. Martin worked smoothly, getting even the most complex multiple drink orders right the first time. The owner, Sylvia, had enough foresight to provide a stepladder so he could reach the top shelf.

When patrons tried to chat with him, he forced a smile and went about cleaning the bar, or changing a keg, or anything to get himself out of the situation. He still managed to make tips, although not as many he knew he could have.

After closing out the bar, he returned to his small flat, across the hall from Sylvia’s, and lay down to sleep. For some reason, John Denver’s Take Me Home, Country Roads was going through his head as he drifted off.

The next morning, Martin found himself singing in the shower. “Country rooooads… take me hoooome… to the plaaaace… I beloooong.” He hated the song, but it was stuck firmly in his head.

A strong cup of coffee rounded out his morning. He thought he should take a walk around the city to get a better feel for the place he lived. Propped against the wall near his shoes was the book. This time he knew it wasn’t his mistake. The book should have been in the express post and arriving at the magic library by now.

He’d handle it personally on his first day off. The bar was closed on Mondays, so he could take the train on Monday morning, return the book, pay the fee, and be home by teatime. He set the book on the small table in the center of the flat and went for his walk. When he found the local library, he spent the rest of the day there until it was time to go to work.

Martin prepped for the evening, slicing lemons and limes, refilling the ice machine, checking the soda syrup and CO2 canisters, and restocking the beer cooler.

“You’re awfully chipper today,” Sylvia said. A slender elf, streaks of grey in her amber hair, her smile accentuated the faint wrinkles around her green eyes.

“Sorry?” Martin was unsure what she was talking about.

“I didn’t take you for the type to whistle while you work. Charming.”

He realized he’d been whistling Take Me Home, Country Roads. “Yeah, it’s— stuck in my head since last night. I don’t even like the song.”

“Earworm,” she said. “It’ll be gone soon enough, I’m certain.”

Later that evening, a young human man sat at the bar and drank two shots in silence. Everything about his manner pointed to someone unhappy. Dark rings showed under his bright brown eyes, even against the deep brown of his skin. “Hey mate,” he said, “I’m gutted. My boyfriend scarpered… with a bird. Got anything to cheer me up or make me forget?”

Martin thought about it. He’d never had the chance to make any of the drinks in the book that he needed to return. There was one he could try. Not that alcohol is a great pick-me-up, but it had an apt name, at least.

After mixing the complicated drink, Martin slid it across the bar. “One Silver Lining for you.”

The man sipped at the drink while Martin went about his work. John Denver ran through his head again, more insistent now. Doing his best to ignore it, he returned to where the man was finishing the drink.

A broad smile played across his face. “Thanks, mate! You’re right. If that bastard was going to leave me to be with a girl, it’s better now than later. I’ll come back, for sure!” He handed Martin a hundred pounds for his three drinks. “Keep it, mate!”

Sleep, when it came, was fitful. Take Me Home, Country Roads kept playing in his mind, slowly gaining in volume, until it woke him in the middle of night. His throat was sore and dry, and still, he couldn’t stop whistling or humming the song.

A knock at his door roused him out of the bed. He opened it to see Sylvia, in her dressing gown and slippers. “Is there a problem?” he asked.

“You tell me. You were screaming a John Denver song at the top of your lungs.”

“Ah, I… sorry.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Did you serve anything unusual tonight?”

“Just a recipe from that book,” he turned to point at the book on the table, but it wasn’t there, “uh, that I haven’t made before.”

“I see. What’s in a ‘Time Bomb’?”

It was the first time he’d heard anyone mention any of the recipes from the mixology book. Martin rattled off the ingredients and the directions for properly mixing it.

“When did you return the Master Mixology book?”

“I, uh, was going to do it Monday.” He shifted from foot to foot, his hands twiddling some unseen thing.

“It’s overdue, isn’t it?” With her hands on her hips, she reminded him of his grade five teacher, berating him for his lack of curiosity and inventiveness.

“It’s a couple days over by now,” he said.

“That song will be drilled into your mind deeper and deeper until you return the book, by hand, to the magic library.” She sighed and crossed her arms. “How did you graduate without ever finding out how the magic library handles overdue books?”

“I’ve never…”

“Never had an overdue book before,” she said. “I guess that’s a point in your favor.”

“No, I… never checked anything else out from the magic library.”

“Odd,” she said, “most students have to check something out for their studies.”

“I usually just read them in the library and memorized the important parts. This one, though, there’s so many steps on some of the drinks that it took a while to commit to memory.”

 She knelt to be eye level with the gnome. “You take tomorrow off and get that book back to the library before it drives you insane.”

“Okay, I’ll do it first thing in the morning.”

“You’d best start right away.” She placed a hand on his shoulder. “Every moment you aren’t moving toward the library the song will only get louder.”

He nodded assent.

“Whatever you do,” she said, “do not make any more drinks out of that book until we’ve had a long talk about it when you get back. There’s a reason that book was in the magic library.”

He wasn’t sure what the reason might be, but he was sick of the song he couldn’t stop humming. He dressed quickly then looked for the book. It wasn’t on the table where he’d put it, and he couldn’t find it anywhere else in the flat. He was about to give up when he saw it leaning against the wall near his shoes again.

“Okay, I get it. Take you home.”

He headed toward the train station. The university was southeast of the city, but the station was north of his location. The song grew louder in his mind as he trekked to the station. “Shut up! I know it’s the other way, but I have to catch a train.”

After buying a ticket, Martin moved to the platform and walked south along it, as slowly as possible. While he did so the song faded to the background. When he reached the end of the platform, he turned and ran to the north end of the platform as fast as he could, the song screaming in his head until he turned back south and did it all over again.

When the train arrived, he continued walking south on the platform, waiting for the last moment to board. When the final boarding call was made, he scrambled on and found a seat. The next two minutes before the train began moving were hell.

At each stop, the song ramped back up until the train began moving again. It was relentless and maddening. By walking toward the back of the train while it was in motion, and back toward the front during the stops, he could keep it somewhat at bay.

The train stopped at Rowan’s Crossing and the conductor made her way through the cars. “Last stop, all off!”

“But… isn’t the train continuing to the Beaker Hill stop?” he asked.

“We’re broken down. The next train comes at half seven, if we can get off the tracks. It’s a four hour wait, or you can hire a taxi.”

With no other choice, Martin left the station. The university was still twelve miles on. The taxi stand was empty, except for repaving equipment. Dejected, he began the trek on foot. The song still looped through his mind, but he felt like the words were changing. No matter, the main road would take him straight to the campus, and then he could head straight to the magic library.

He reached the campus at seven-thirty, the same time the train might be leaving Rowan’s Crossing. He headed across campus and reached the magic library. It was due to open in half an hour. His feet ached and his legs burned, so he sat on the grass near the door.

No sooner had he sat than the song took over again. “Take me hoooome… little gnoooome… to the plaaaace… I beloooong… Hyrill University… magic library… take me hoooome, little gnome.”

“Oh, come on! That doesn’t even scan!” Realizing he was yelling at himself, he rose from the grass and walked towards the door. Since it wasn’t open yet, he began circling the library, still singing the non-scanning version of the song that plagued him. While it didn’t shut the song up completely, it did dial it back some. It was on his fifth circuit that he realized the library should be open, but it still wasn’t.

He pulled at the doors in a panic. Locked. It was then that he saw the sign. “Closed for deep cleaning. Will reopen tomorrow.” The library wouldn’t open for another twenty-four hours. Unable to do anything else, he continued walking around the library, humming and singing.

Martin wasn’t sure when, but guessed it was late afternoon when he collapsed near the front door. His legs could no longer hold him. He lay on his back, trying to catch his breath, while the song took over. He couldn’t hear anything over the song and his throat burned. Someone shoved a bottle of water in his hand, and he drank it all down at once, still humming.

His voice gave out sometime during the night, but still he sang, a raspy whisper. Sleep was out of the question as the song had grown so loud in his head that he thought it might burst any second. Try as he might, he couldn’t focus on his phone to see the time. He hoped someone would let him know when the library opened.

Convinced this would be the way he died, Martin closed his eyes and kept singing. The more he sang the botched lines the more he could convince himself that they scanned well enough. The morning sun warmed his face, and still he lay, singing.

When he thought the song couldn’t get any louder or more strident, it did. He opened his eyes to see the door of the library standing open. Still unable to stand, he crawled into the library, the song pounding in his head while he croaked it out. The returns desk was so very close, yet so far away.

Martin reached the desk and tried to put the book into the return slot. It was too high from where he lay on the floor. Giving it everything he had, he forced himself to his feet and inserted the book into the slot. The song kept ringing in his head, but it was reducing in volume.

“I see we have a late return,” the librarian said.

Martin collapsed.

He woke in the university hospital, an IV in his arm and a concerned troll nurse standing over him. “Good afternoon, Mr. Gillam. I am Brian, your nurse.” His voice was deep but warm, his accent unplaceable.

“Am I…,” his voice was gone, a mere whisper that burned his throat like fire.

“Do not speak,” Brian said. “Your vocal cords are damaged, and if you do not stay silent for a few days it could be permanent.”

Martin nodded, then gave what he hoped was a clear enough look of questioning to get his point across.

“You can leave if you wish, though it is better if you get your strength.” Brian pointed to a large cup with a straw near the bed. “Solid food would be painful, so I brought you a milkshake. The cold will help.”

Martin took the shake and drank fast enough to give himself brain freeze. He didn’t care, the cold caressed his throat and soothed some of the burning.

“You had the mixology book?” the nurse asked. When Martin nodded, he said, “Shall we take a trip to the lounge?”

Martin shrugged. It seemed fine to him, even when Brian lifted him out of the bed and put him into a wheelchair for the trip. His legs felt like jelly and his feet throbbed.

The lounge was equipped with a bar. Why it existed in a university hospital, Martin didn’t know.

“Would you like magical help?” Brian asked. “I am an RN but working on my degree in magical medicine.”

Martin nodded and the nurse dropped a five-pound note in the donations jar. 

Odd time to donate, Martin thought.

Brian began mixing a drink, checking the written recipe every step of the way. He was making a Bounce Back, Martin was sure of it.

Brian was about to muddle the lime without sugar and Martin stopped him with a wave of his hands. He pointed to the sugar, and Brian looked back at the recipe. “Ah, yes, Mr. Gillam.” Brian muddled the lime with sugar and added it to the shaker. After a good shake and straining the drink over ice, he handed it to the gnome.

Martin sipped the drink, feeling the strength return to his legs, the throbbing in his feet subsiding. By the time he finished it he felt fully fresh and ready to leave.

“Thanks for the Bounce Back.”

“Oh, you really should not talk for the next couple days,” the nurse said. “But if you want to leave now, you can. I will take you back to your room so you can dress.”

 As Martin sat on the train, heading back to the city, the song still played in the back of his mind. He wondered how long it would take to get rid of it. Still, after seeing the effects of the drink Brian had given him, he knew why the mixology book belonged in the magic library.

Sylvia took his doctor’s note to heart and decided that he shouldn’t utter a sound for the next two days. She also took it as the perfect time to scold him. “You should never attempt to do magic without paying for it first.”

The donation… Brian was “paying for” the magic.

“I suppose you had a rough time getting to the library, right?” Martin’s downcast look gave her confirmation. “In future, before you make one of my recipes, ask me first. Some of them can be dangerously expensive.”

“Your…?”

“Shh!” She cut him off and dropped a ten-pound note in the donations jar. “You don’t talk for two days. And yes, my recipes. Now prep the bar for opening while I make you a Well Sooner.”