Tag: urban fantasy

Trunk Stories

Publicly Secret

prompt: Write a story about a secret group or society.

available at Reedsy

They were always there, watching, waiting for the moment they needed to step in and fulfill their vow to keep The Secret. Alec hadn’t expected it to come so soon, though.

He’d been introduced to them a year prior, after what he’d learned was three years of research and vetting of him as a candidate. Professor Miriam Dragostine had made the invite. After three years of an increasingly weird university experience, he was ready to peek behind the curtain.

Less than a month after induction, Alec was called to an emergency meeting, not by the professor, but by the Knight General. He knew her only by voice, but she was there, at the university, along with the rest of the brothers and sisters.

Miriam met him at the door hidden at the back of the boiler room, unlocking it as he approached. “Alec.”

“Professor,” he nodded.

“Not here, Knight Commander, Sister or just Miriam,” she reminded him.

“Sorry, old habits.” He stepped in and she followed, closing the door behind her. He looked around the ornate lounge, a dozen people already in attendance, nearly half wearing hooded robes. “Am I late?”

“No. We’ve been going over this for hours before we decided to call general assembly. You’re the first to show.”

“But … the door?” Alec asked.

“Because you don’t have a key yet.” Miriam smiled. “It’s being made. I should have it to you by the end of the week.”

Alec looked at the key she held. At first glance it looked like an ordinary high-security key. The reflections as it turned, though, showed it had an intricate design of hair-thin holes and engravings that joined them in a constellation of design.

“Works for every door to a Temple.” She put the key in her pocket. “Our temples, that is.”

Others arrived, in ones and twos over the next hour. Aside from the five that were robed, everyone in attendance looked like any average person walking in off the street.

A small woman with greying brown hair and light brown eyes broke off her conversation with those wearing robes and stood. “Exalted Knights of The Secret Way,” she called out.

All those seated, except for the robed ones, stood. The entire standing assemblage snapped to attention. “The Knights hear and answer, Knight General,” they called out in unison.

“We have a dilemma.” She motioned to the robed figures, still seated. “The Knight Commanders and I have been trying to find a solution, but so far have failed.”

The Knight General turned to the cluster of robed individuals. “Agarta, would you like to explain the situation to the Knights?”

One of the robed figures stood, smaller than the Knight General, and nodded at her. “Certainly, Jess. I will try to be brief.” Her accent was unplaceable.

She pulled back her hood, revealing sun-bronzed skin, dark brown hair with sun-bleached ends, and tall, pointed ears. The others pulled off their hoods. Different shades of skin, hair, and eyes, and variation in the size and shape of their ears, but all were pointed.

“My name is Agarta, and I represent the kingdom of Samal. My associates represent the nations of Currander, Bridgeborn, Frantos, and the city-state of Lesser Mount Vault,” she introduced as each nodded in turn. “We are here to ask your aid. An illness is spreading, and the only available treatment is here in your world.”

Agarta crossed her arms, and her gaze fell to the patterned carpet. “If we don’t get treatment for the currently ill … fast … and vaccinate a major portion of the population, we run the risk of extinction.” She raised her head and turned to the Knight General. “I’ll let you take it from here, Jess.”

“We have a duty to maintain The Secret, that our world and theirs are connected and magic is very real, just not here. Although it isn’t written in the Rites and Orders, I feel we also have a duty to aid and protect our magical cousins.”

She clapped her hands once, the sound sharp and cutting through the sudden murmur. “We’ve already tried taking antibiotics and vaccines through to their world. Crossing over does the same thing to them as bringing magic potions here; turns it inert.

“I’ll leave you all to converse among yourselves and to meet our friends. Any ideas, pass them on to your commander. We’ll reconvene in two hours to discuss possible solutions.” She snapped to attention and all the Knights followed suit. “Knights, ho!”

“Ho!” they called out in unison before breaking into groups of conversation.

Alec looked at the crowds around the elves. “Prof … Miriam,” he asked, “are the Knights connected?”

“Connected to what?”

“Like, Hollywood, politicians, stuff like that?”

“Probably, at least tangentially. Why?”

“I might have an idea, but I need to figure out if it’s even feasible before I bring it up.” Alec pulled his phone out of his pocket. “I’m going heads-down to do some research. When I have something more concrete, I’ll find you.”

Alec spent time researching on his phone, stopping every few minutes to ask questions of whoever happened to be nearest him at the moment. He typed away on his phone for several long minutes before jumping up and making a beeline for Miriam.

He explained his ideas, got her feedback, and followed her around, taking notes on his phone as she led him from Knight to Knight, filling in details. By the time the two hours ended, Alec had gotten to the point where he was going over the same calculations for the third and fourth time.

The Knight Commanders talked with the Knight General for a few minutes before she clapped once and the commanders all said, “Aye.”

“We have an idea from our newest Knight. Alec, please share the plan.” The Knight General stepped aside and motioned for Alec to take her place.

Alec cleared his throat. “Okay, um, I’ll start with a little explanation of my thinking. When I first saw the elves, I thought of cosplayers and conventions. But there’s no way we could stretch a convention long enough to do what we need.

“However, a large space is the only thing that would make this possible. Handling a few dozen vaccinations a day in a cabin in the mountains would take years, assuming we could even get in front of it.

“That’s when it hit me. There’s an abandoned mall fifteen minutes from here, and a bunch of people dressed like elves would not seem out of place for this.” Alec began scrolling through his phone. “The cost to put a temporary privacy fence around the mall—”

“Brother Alec,” the Knight General interrupted, “you can connect to the screen so we can all see.” She pointed at the bookcase that slid down into the floor to expose the large screen monitor.

Once connected, Alec continued. “I’ve figured the costs for putting up a privacy fence, plus a one-year lease of the entire property with a renewal option. We’ll need some equipment to pull it off, but this will work.”

He showed them through his flowcharts, graphs, and diagrams, how they could treat up to 600 of the sick at a time, and vaccinate two to four thousand a day. The plans included how many trucks of supplies would need to arrive each day, how much catering, and how many people would need to be working around the clock.

Alec paused, then looked up from his phone. “I know our mandate is to protect The Secret, but I think the best way to do it in this case is by being publicly secretive.”

He put the mall floor plan up on the screen and moved closer to point out his thoughts. “If we move two gates to the elves’ world here and here, in the old Macy’s,” he said, “we can process as many as four thousand vaccinations a day, if we keep entry flowing this direction to what used to be the housewares department and back out through garments. Notice that it leaves us a clear shot to the center of the main concourse, and we have three other major stores right there, all two-story, that we can use for our temporary hospital.”

He switched to a view of the docks. “We can bring supplies in here, including the lights, cameras, computers, stage sets, and green screens that we’ll use to block off viewing into the hospital and vaccine ward. We’ll also make that our only entrance and exit from outside the mall.

“The public story is that we’re making a movie. The working title is Elves, and we’ll need a script, but it should be a dog. We won’t actually make a movie, of course, but it should look, from the outside, like someone’s pet Hollywood production that exists only to lose money and be a tax shelter. That gives us plausible deniability for anything other than spending a year making a movie. All this relies, of course, on a covert supplier for the vaccine.”

Alec disconnected his phone. “That’s … all I’ve got so far.”

There was a long pause while everyone thought about what he’d just shown. Then, as if a switch had been flipped, suggestions started flowing, along with lots of, “I know a guy,” and “I can get ahold of one of those.”

The Knight General clapped her hands loud enough to silence the room. “Brother Alec, Sister Miriam, this is your operation as of this moment. I will create an LLC for the production company that will handle all the financial details. Let’s plan on having the lease secured and a construction company to put up the fences by the end of the month.

“Before you get too far into this, though, Brother Alec has not had his mal magicum vaccination and will need to cross with the elves to get that. We don’t want you breaking out in spark-shooting chicken pox. Is that something we can handle today?” she asked, turning to Agarta.

“Absolutely, Jess. I would like to speak with the young man some more to get details about what medical cadre we will need to provide, and how we should prioritize the vaccination rolls.”

Alec looked to his side where Miriam wore a satisfied smile. “I knew you were a good pick,” she said. “So, who’s the director? Maybe we could get Robert Rodriguez.”

“Is he a Knight, too?” he asked.

“Is he? Couldn’t tell you even if I knew,” she answered.

Trunk Stories

Ritual

prompt: Start or end your story with a character making a cup of tea for themself or someone else.

available at Reedsy

The ornate porcelain teapot was out of place on the scratched metallic countertop. Strong, scarred hands the color of worn khaki filled the center strainer of the pot with leaves from an airtight metal canister. Those same hands lifted the electric kettle and poured the boiling water over the strainer in the teapot before putting the lid on and setting it on the cheap, plastic table. “There’s something calming in the ritual of it, I find.”

“Which ritual? The hunt, the capture or…the kill?” The woman that sat at the table was slight of build, with charcoal-black skin including her lips and tongue, striking violet eyes that angled up at the outsides, and ears topped by long points that stuck out of her shock-white hair.

The owner of the teapot, kettle, table, and scarred hands sat across from the dark elf. His height and build would best be described as average. Medium brown hair nearly matched his medium brown eyes. He was of indeterminate age, possibly as young as twenty or as old as fifty. His clean-shaven face was marred by only one scar that began just below the right side of his nose and ran down his lips to his chin. If he chose to grow a beard and mustache, he would have no visible defining features.

“I was speaking of the ritual of making tea,” he said. “Are you that eager to get to business?”

The elf shook her head. “No, I—sorry. This is a strange situation for me.”

“Strange how?” He checked the clock over the door and folded his hands on the table to wait out the last minute of the tea steeping.

“I don’t even know what to call you or what you are. Bounty hunter? Assassin? Spy?” She sighed. “All I know is that you are protected by the Crown even when you do some things that are…distasteful.”

“My name is Senior Agent John McCall, and yours is Detective Brianna Havelock. Why not start there?” He poured the tea into the matching cups. “I’d offer you milk, but since I don’t use it, I don’t keep it on hand.”

“Do you have any honey?” she asked.

He turned to the cabinets behind him and opened one of the metal doors with a squeak. He set a bear-shaped plastic squeeze bottle of honey on the table and sat back down. “Tell me, detective, what do find distasteful about my job performance?”

She stirred her tea, watching the honey dissolve before speaking. “You act as judge, jury, and executioner,” she said, “with no repercussions.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Fallon Straz. I get that your work is meant to be secret, but even when it became public, the official word from the Crown was that quote, ‘These things happen, but the world is safer for it.’ If the police did something like that….”

“Detective Havelock, you’re here because the Crown Secret Service wants you on board. I assure you that I can explain Straz and other cases to your satisfaction, but not without reading you in.” He opened the satchel that sat beside the table and placed a small pile of stapled pages in front of her.

“Read this thoroughly,” he said, “and understand that everything in it is literal, before you make your decision. I’d recommend focusing solely on absorbing all of it before you make up your mind.”

“Literal, huh?” She scanned through the pages and stopped. “Even this? ‘…executed and soul trapped until such time as all known operations are no longer classified.’”

“Especially that. I suggest you take the time to read it all properly.”

Brianna sipped at her tea as she read through the sheaf of papers twice. “Why me?”

“You’ve proven yourself as a natural in undercover work, and The Service can teach you everything you need to be a top-notch agent.” John cleared up the table and cleaned out the teapot. “Besides that, you have no attachments outside work.”

“I would’ve thought that my involvement in the Release the Innocent Project would turn you sour on me as a candidate.”

John smiled. “That was the deciding factor for me. You care more about real justice than your departmental stats.”

“What about Straz? Was it justice when you shot him at point blank range?” she asked.

The smile never wavered. “I can’t talk about it, until and unless you sign that document.”

The elf closed her eyes and massaged the pointed tip of her right ear. She let out a low growl, then said, “Okay. I’m in.”

John watched her sign the documents, then whisked them away into his satchel. “Welcome to the Crown Secret Service, Trainee Agent Havelock,” he said.

“Now you can tell me about Straz, right?”

“I could, but I think I’ll let him tell you the story when we visit his cell tomorrow.”

“Wait, he’s alive?” she asked.

“He is. And he’ll no doubt live to a ripe old age without ever leaving the confines of SuperMax.” John rose and started the kettle again.

“But all the reports, the news, the Crown spokesperson—”

“Told exactly the story we needed them to tell.” He measured out the tea for the strainer and refilled it. “You know what The Service’s main mission is, Trainee?”

“Protect the Crown, Parliament, judges, and so on,” she said.

“That’s our secondary mission. Our primary mission is to protect and preserve the nation.”

“That makes sense, I guess.”

“And do you know what the best tool we have to do that is?” he asked.

“Intelligence?” she answered in a questioning tone.

“Image.” John paused as he poured the water over the strainer and checked the clock above the door. “The CSS creates an image, a look. You, and everyone else in the world, has an image of John ‘The Rogue’ McCall as a shoot first, ask questions later, torture-as-a-hobby strong-arm who will do anything in pursuit of a goal.”

Brianna looked down at the table. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“It’s because that image opens more doors and closes more cases than standard fieldwork alone.” John set the teapot on the table and sat down with a smile. “If I was just another agent, the people I have in my custody would be more likely to stonewall me or try to bullshit their way out. When they realize that The Rogue is their captor, though, they’re much more likely to be as helpful as possible in order to save their own skin.”

“Unless they have their own image to maintain,” she said.

“True. But if they’re at that level, they understand the difference between rumor and reality.” John poured out a second round of tea in fresh cups. “In those cases, there are specially trained agents that handle the interrogations. Before you ask about torture, no, the Service doesn’t do that…at least not physical torture. Considering the number of psychiatrists the Service hires for that role, though, just being in a room with one of them might be considered torture.”

“Since everything I know about you is rumor, how about telling me something real. Have you ever shot anyone?” Brianna sipped her tea, her demeanor much more relaxed than it had been.

“A few times.” John chuckled and said, “I even shot Straz. In the calf, from twenty meters or so, not point-blank in the head. I’d just broken my ankle jumping over a wall and landing on a bottle, and he was getting away. Thought I’d even up the odds.”

Brianna took on a questioning look. “So, the tea,” she asked, “is this just image as well?”

“Why do you ask that?”

“I noticed you barely drank any of your first cup, but you’ve gone and made a second pot for us.” She waved a hand. “Not that I’m complaining, it’s very good tea — Assam black if I were to guess.”

“Good guess, and no, it’s not about image. I meant what I said about the whole ritual of it being calming.” He smiled at the elf again. “Not as Senior Agent to Trainee, but person to person, I recommend you find something that does the same for you. Something simple that calms, centers, and grounds Brianna the person so Brianna the agent can be focused and alert.”

Trunk Stories

Afterlife

prompt: Center your story around someone who’s being haunted — by what or whom is up to you.

available at Reedsy

It was there again, at the edge of my senses, always just out of sight. My brother, mister smarty-pants, said that it was nothing more than stress and apophenia with a dash of pareidolia thrown in for good measure.

I had to look it up after he’d left — I couldn’t let him think his big sister wasn’t good with words. Why couldn’t he just say I was seeing patterns that didn’t exist and assigning meaning to them? That’s what an English degree and a job as an assistant librarian gets you, I guess.

It’s not that I’m stupid, I just went a different direction. While my little brother was busy with college, I was throwing off gender norms, getting my hands dirty and working my way up from the bottom to where I am now. By the time I was certified as a Master Mechanic, I’d moved up to the number two position in the garage. Rick, the owner, has said, more than once, that when he retires, I should take over and buy him out.

He gave me a chance to run the whole show. For the first time in more years than I’d known him, he was taking a real vacation. Rick and his wife were taking a month-long vacation in Cabo San Lucas. For the first few days, he’d called every day, until his wife and I ganged up on him to focus on his vacation. I hadn’t heard from him in over a week, but I still emailed the daily statements to him every evening.

Whatever it was, it had started when Rick stopped calling, but I wasn’t all that stressed. Running the garage felt natural. There was nothing I was doing that I hadn’t done a thousand times before.

I was there late, replacing the brakes on the parts truck, and if I didn’t know better, I’d think someone else was there, too. It was like whoever or whatever it was flitted about just outside my field of view like a shy moth. Maybe that’s what it was — a moth or something around one of the lights casting flickering shadows.

I took a break from my work and walked around the entire garage, inspecting every light fixture. No moths in or around any of them. I even continued my search in the office, the warehouse, and the bathrooms. Aside from the dead bugs in the warehouse lights, nothing.

I went back to work on the truck, focused on my task rather than the feeling of eyes on the back of my neck. After I had the truck buttoned up and ready to go I carried the old pads to the recycle cart. To get there I had to pass Rick’s tool chest. As I did, it felt hard to breathe. It felt as though something terrible had happened to him.

The clank of the pads in the recycle cart pulled my attention back to the garage. Rick was fine, I was just stressed. I was certain my little brother had it right. That didn’t stop me from sending him a “Hope your vacation is going great” text message, though.

I waited too long for a reply, then decided I should head home. Like I often did on the drive home, I came up with a set of tasks for the next day. For sure, I’d have Neil and Jose clean the light fixtures in the warehouse and run a broom through it. Hadn’t been done in months, I was sure.

I parked in front of my apartment, and had a moment, just as I shut off the engine, where it felt like there was someone in the passenger seat. There wasn’t, of course, but it still set my heart to pounding. I locked the car, and my phone chimed with the text message sound.

Excited to hear from Rick, I checked. There were no new texts, and no notifications. Maybe I just imagined it. That had to be it.

As I slept, I relived a conversation Rick and I had a few months prior. We’d somehow gotten on the topic of what, if anything, comes after death.

“I don’t think anything happens,” I said. “Just like there was no you before your birth, there’s no you after your death.”

“But what would it be like if there was something after death?” he asked. “Some way to balance out the cosmic scales of the rich and successful bad people and the poor and struggling good people, for instance.”

“Like karma?”

“Yeah,” he said, “or maybe that’s what Purgatory is for.”

“If that’s your take, what about ghosts? Are they the medium people?”

“I don’t know. Maybe they’re just trying to avoid Purgatory, or they’re waiting for someone or something.” He laughed. “Tell you what, if there’s something after death, I’ll let you know.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked. “You’re talking like you’re dying. What is it? Cancer?”

“No, no,” he said, “nothing like that. I’m old, and you’re still young. Odds are, I’ll die first. And if I do, then I’ll let you know if there’s an afterlife.”

“So, you’ll haunt me?”

Rick rubbed his beard. “Depends. Would you rather be haunted or hunted?” He burst into a cackling laugh. “What a difference an ‘a’ makes!”

I groaned. “You and your dad jokes. At least if you’re haunting me, I’ll know it’s you.”

I woke and realized that I still hadn’t heard from Rick in over a week. I checked my phone again and saw nothing new. I was seriously beginning to worry.

I opened the garage early and checked the phone for messages. There was one from the Sheriff’s department. Intrigued, I listened to the message.

“This is Sheriff’s Deputy Maria Ruiz calling for Ana Navona. Please call me back at your earliest convenience at ….”

I wrote down the number, then called from my cell phone. The call was answered on the first ring.

“Sheriff’s Department, how can I direct your call?” the young-sounding man on the phone asked.

“Deputy Maria Ruiz, please,” I said.

There were a couple clicks on the line. “Ruiz.”

“Yeah, this is Ana Navona. You asked me to call you?”

“Ana, I’m so sorry. We just got word from the Red Cross that Richard and Judith Collins were in a boating accident eight days ago. Mexican authorities have given up the search for them and have declared them dead.”

I stared at the window of the shop, the shock blurring the “Ricks Automotive” sign long before the tears blurred everything. “He’s…he’s dead?”

“I’m so sorry, ma’am.”

“Yeah…I gotta go.”

By the time everyone came in, I’d put up a temporarily closed sign and was sobbing in the middle of bay one in the garage.

We had a quiet day, drinking, talking about Rick and Jude, and doing our best not to bawl. My phone rang several times throughout the day, with no number showing up, and nothing but static on the line.

It was sometime after noon that Neil called cabs for everyone to get home, and my phone rang again.

“Listen, whoever this is, today is not a good day for pranks. Leave me the fuck alone!” I yelled.

I heard the static again and waited for any response when I heard his voice, sounding distant. It sounded like Rick, but I knew it couldn’t be, until the voice got louder. “Ana Navona, we’ve been trying to reach you about your karma’s extended warranty.”

Trunk Stories

Seeing Her

prompt: Write a story where a creature turns up in an unexpected way.

available at Reedsy

Death comes calling for every living thing at some point, even when she sends one of her agents around to collect. Most of those agents are simply doing what it takes to survive. Life, for the most part, feeds on death. Some, however, are unwitting and even unwilling, but they still collect.

Travis Leoni became one of those unwitting agents of death when he had lain on the lawn of the cemetery after placing flowers on his parents’ grave. A passerby thought he might need help and called for police to check on the “homeless man sleeping in the graveyard.”

The presence of the officer there meant she wasn’t in a position to prevent an accident. A driver in a hurry that would’ve slowed down at the sight of a police cruiser, blew through an intersection and hit a cyclist.

Travis, the officer that checked on him, and the concerned citizen that called it in had no idea of their roles in that death, but Death knew. She knew that the cyclist didn’t have to die that day. In fact, the idea that every living thing has a pre-ordained time to die is something people tell themselves to feel better about it. Living things, including people, die when they die and not on a schedule.

Travis left his parents’ grave behind and walked to the bar where he and his father used to share a pitcher of beer every Saturday. He sat at a table in the back, not wanting to be in the midst of the crowds on the anniversary of his parents’ passing.

The bar filled, and others sat at the table for a bit before leaving again. One man, however, dressed in a silk suit, sat down across from Travis with a glass of wine and stared at him until he responded.

“What do you want?” he asked the man.

“You look like you’ve seen Death,” the man said.

“So have a lot of people.” Travis emptied his drink and gave the waitress a nod for a refill. “I’m not looking for sympathy and I don’t need your advice or religion or whatever you’re offering.”

“You misunderstand me,” the man said. “I don’t mean you’ve seen the end of a life or lives, I mean you’ve seen her.” He leaned across the table. “Death with a capital ‘D’.”

The waitress set his fresh drink down and Travis handed her a bill and waved off the change. “What is that supposed to mean?”

The man smiled, but his eyes reflected nothing. “I mean that there are so few living things that have seen the Lady Death before she comes for them, it’s easy to pick out those who have.”

Travis harrumphed. “If there’s anything you see here, it’s survivor’s guilt.”

“That’s what you think,” the man said, loosening his tie. “But there are memories you haven’t faced yet.”

“So you say.”

The man sipped at his wine. “What is your employment?”

“I’m an EMT.” Travis said.

“Exactly. Of course, you didn’t even consider it before the accident.”

“Well,” Travis said, “you seem to know everything about me.”

“Not everything,” the man said, “but enough. You spend one weekend a month as a volunteer, right?”

“Yeah, I’m a vigil volunteer.”

“What is that, exactly?”

“I sit with dying patients in hospice care.” Travis stared into his drink. “I hold their hand, talk to them, calm them. I just don’t want them to die alone.”

“You are doing what you saw the lady herself do.” The man stared at Travis unblinking. “You’re drawn to her, and long to meet her.”

“I long to meet death?” Travis asked. “I don’t have a death wish.”

“That’s not what I said. I said you want to see Death, capital ‘D’, again.” The man touched Travis’s forehead. “Remember.”

The oncoming truck swerved into their lane. Travis’ father jerked the wheel to the right, sending the car into the end of the guard rail. The car flipped over the railing, sailing off the bridge, landing upside down in the creek far below.

Travis woke suspended by the seatbelt in the back seat. The headrests of the front seats disappeared into the crushed roof of the car, where water washed in clear and flowed out red. He knew his parents were dead.

Then he saw her. Though only visible as a faint shadow, he knew she was there to help. He couldn’t make out what she was saying, but he could feel waves of peace and comfort radiate from her to cover his parents. He saw their faces for a brief moment, smiling as they left with her.

When his awareness returned to the bar, he looked at the man through his tears. That feeling he had the night his parents died — that was the same feeling he tried to give those passing at the hospice care  — or in his ambulance. He wanted to feel her presence again.

Travis dried his eyes. “How did you know what even I didn’t?” he asked.

“Because I can always see her,” he said. “And I know that she’s never far from you.”

“Well, yeah. I mean, I help people who are dying.”

“That, and she’s sitting right beside you.” Again, the man smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

Travis looked to the side and saw only the empty bench beside him. He looked back at the man’s eyes and realized that they were not reflecting the lights around them. They looked dull, dead.

“What are you?” he asked. “No, ignore that. If she’s sitting there, why can’t I see her, but you can?”

“She doesn’t show herself to the living.”

Travis rolled his eyes on reflex. “She doesn’t show herself to the living, yet you are here, talking and breathing and drinking wine. You seem pretty alive to me.”

For the first time, the man’s smile reached his eyes. “Her definition of living is slightly different than yours. Any organism that can die without external forces is alive. As I can be killed but can’t die otherwise, she doesn’t consider me alive.”

“Then how did I see her last time?” Travis asked.

“That I don’t know,” the man said, “but I offer a way to meet her properly and then see her always.”

Travis closed his eyes. What was he feeling before seeing her during the accident? The shock of knowing his parents had just died hit him like a hammer. Having just relived the memory, he allowed himself to feel that shock and the blanking of his thoughts.

Travis opened his eyes and looked to his right. She was there. If asked to describe her, he would be hard-pressed to come up with any physical traits. It was her gentle, calm presence that filled him.

She gave him a sad smile and brushed his cheek with her hand. He felt her love for him, for all living things.

Travis turned to look at the man across from him and truly saw him for the first time. He saw the hundreds of years of post-death existence behind the facade of a man. He saw through the youthful appearance, paid for by drinking the blood of others. The vampire that sat opposite him was a husk of a creature, preserved but dead.

“You’re thinking about it,” the vampire said. “I can give you what you want. You should see how she’s looking at you now, knowing that she’ll be meeting you properly in a moment.”

“That’s where you’re wrong.” Travis stared at the vampire with his new sight. “I already have what I want, and you want to take it away. As long as I live, she’s here for me and those I help. You’re nothing more than a husk, shambling through your perverse imitation of life.”

“What? How are you seeing like the undead?”

“Undead? No, you’re dead-dead, you just don’t want to admit it. Good night.”

Travis stood and looked back at Death. With the knowledge of how to open his sight to her, she was easy to see. “I’m leaving. I’ll see you whenever you’re near.”

Trunk Stories

An Unforgivable Sin

prompt: Write a story that hides something from the reader until the end.

available at Reedsy

I didn’t plan for this to happen. It’s not something I would believe myself capable of but — I’ve done the unforgivable. The evidence is there on my bed, her shape covered by the blankets. There’s a woman in the mirror I don’t recognize. It’s my face, hair, body, even eyes…but they’re different somehow.

It started when I was released from jail where I did 364 days for possession because my mother left her drugs in my car. I probably should’ve hired a better lawyer, but that’s another story.

When I walked out of jail, I was starving. The food — if you can call it that — in jail is dismal at best, and there was nothing to feed my soul. I spent the first two weeks out in the downtown area around my apartment, visiting the steakhouse, the Italian place half a block away, the Thai place across the street from there, and the taco truck that only showed up Friday and Saturday evenings on the main drag.

Of course, despite all those places being in the same general area of downtown, the real draw for all of them are the crowds. I love crowds of people, and the energetic buzz that runs through the crowd of partygoers stopping for a quick bite before heading back into one the half-dozen nightclubs and bars in the area.

After those first two weeks and gaining back the few pounds I’d lost in jail, I felt more normal. It was time to get back into the groove of my life. I began to look for a job to keep me busy. I didn’t need the income, just something to occupy my time.

I was under the impression that a misdemeanor was not the dealbreaker a felony record was, but it mattered more than I expected. I eventually found a position as a temp and was sent out to a real estate office to help with digitizing old records.

After most of a week there, they invited me out for happy hour with the office. They took me to a quiet little out-of-the-way bar that I never would’ve chosen on my own. That’s where I met her. A tiny woman with honey-brown skin, deep brown hair with a propensity to frizz, large, dark eyes, and the sweetest shy smile.

Once the rest of the office had left the bar, I sat next to her and bought a round. She was lonely, I was alone, we went back to my place. That’s all it was meant to be. One night, a few hours of companionship.

As she was leaving, she said, “I don’t usually do this, but life is too short to miss a good moment.”

“Isn’t it bad that life is short?” I asked.

“No,” Myra answered with a wink. “That’s what makes every moment precious.”

Over the next week, I couldn’t get her and what she said out of my mind. I didn’t even know her name, and she didn’t know mine. There hadn’t been a need for that, then. I had finished up at the real estate office and spent the week in the mail room of a corporate office downtown.

When Friday rolled around, I found myself heading back to the quiet little bar. Not a single lie I told myself about why I went there stuck. The idea that she might be there pulled me like a moth to flame, and no amount of rationalization would change that.

She was in the same spot at the bar, wearing a shimmery, blue dress. I suddenly felt underdressed, but I wasn’t going to let that stop me.

This time when I sat next to her and she gave me that sweet smile, I said, “Hi. My name’s Andariel…Andi for short.”

“Hi, Andi,” she said, then giggled. “I’m Myra. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

I gave her a kiss, much to the consternation of the bartender and several of the patrons. Feeling the mood around me, I did my best to gather myself.

“My place?” she asked.

We couldn’t get out of there fast enough. Her place was close. A studio apartment just a couple blocks away. Cozy, cute, and homey, her place fit her perfectly.

We spent no more than a few minutes apart over the weekend, starting at her place and ending at mine. We talked about everything and nothing. Monday morning, I woke up two hours early so I could accompany her back to her place spend every spare second with her before she had to go to work.

From the moment she stepped on the bus that would take her to the financial district, my heart felt empty. A longing I’d never known made it hard to think straight. If ever there was a moment I could’ve avoided committing my greatest sin, that was it.

The thought crossed my mind then, Run away while I still can. Go to another city, another state, even another country. Leave her behind before I do something unforgivable.

I called out sick from work and made it as far as packing my bags, before the ache in my heart stopped me. With the drawers and closet empty, I cleaned the apartment then unpacked. I finished just in time to rush to meet Myra at the bus stop.

Her warm smile when she stepped off the bus and saw me sealed our fate. It was too late. There would never be another chance to avoid my sin. I had already committed it in my heart.

The next two months went by in a whirlwind. I got a permanent position at the temp agency, handing out work assignments. Myra moved in with me, saving us both money and reducing her commute to a simple walk.

Since that first time, I haven’t gone out anywhere without Myra. Where I used to get my fill of interactions from the crowds both in and around the clubs and bars, that need was being met by Myra, even when we were doing nothing more than reading in the same room.

It was one of those evenings, a Thursday, that my mother visited. She knocked and let herself in without waiting for a response and stood in the middle of the living room in a fighting stance.

“Andariel!” she shouted at me, “Just what do you think you’re doing?”

“Hello, mother. Please, come in.” I turned to Myra. “Myra, this is my mother, Lilith. Mom, this is Myra.”

“Does that plaything know what you are?” Lilith asked.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Myra asked, standing up. “I’ll have you know that your daughter is—”

“Sit down, child.” Lilith stared her down, and Myra did something I’d never seen before. She withstood that glare.

“Either speak kindly or leave our home,” Myra said. “Your daughter already did time for your drugs. You apparently don’t care about her at all.”

Lilith looked at me. “When did you last take a lover other than Myra? There’s a couple of sweet things waiting for you at the hotel.”

“No.” I shook my head. “Not happening.”

“I can see it’s too late,” Lilith said. Her voice and stance softened. “Myra, since Andariel hasn’t told you yet, she is, like me, a succubus.”

“If she was a slut before, then good for her!” Myra got right into my mother’s face. “She hasn’t slept around since we’ve been together, even without either of us saying anything about it.”

Lilith smiled. “I didn’t say we’re sluts, I said succubus. We need sexual energy as much as we need food.”

“Mother,” I said, “please stop.”

“No, the mortal needs to understand. Sit down!” Lilith used her powers of compulsion to make Myra sit. “If my daughter doesn’t feed her soul, she’ll die.”

“Is that true?” Myra asked. “You’ll die if you don’t take other lovers?”

“Not like that,” I said. “I’ll become mortal. I’ll lose my powers over time. I’ll age, and we can grow old together.”

Tears filled Myra’s eyes. “I don’t want you to die just for me. Do what you need to survive.”

“You don’t understand,” I said, “I won’t.”

“This is no way for one of my daughters to behave,” Lilith said. “I never thought it would be you, but after a thousand years, here it is.”

Myra broke through Lilith’s compulsion enough to shake free and stand up. “What is here?”

“You are a strong one. Yes, I think you did it,” Lilith said.

“Did what?” Myra asked.

I heaved a sigh. “She means you made me commit an unforgivable sin.”

“Unforgivable sin?” Myra asked.

“My daughter has fallen in love. She will die but I and my other daughters will carry on.” Lilith sighed. “I’ll miss her, though.”

“Andi, go to the hotel. Tend to your needs. We’ll work through it.” Myra was frantic. “Please. I don’t want to lose you.”

“You’re not going to lose me,” I said. “For the first time in over a thousand years, I know love. One lifetime with you is worth more than all of that and all the other thousands I could have. You said it, because life is short, it’s precious.”

Lilith turned to go. “Goodbye, Andariel. You were one of my favorite daughters. We will hold your wake in fifty years, but you will never see me again.”

The years since then have gone by in a blur. I looked at Myra’s sleeping profile under the blankets, then turned back to the mirror to straighten my greying hair. She was still worth it.

Trunk Stories

Predator

prompt: Write a story from the point of view of a ghost, vampire, or werewolf.

available at Reedsy

Liminal, that’s the word I’d use to describe myself. I live in the spaces between; between human and beast, between day and night, between civilization and…shit, I’m rambling in my own head. What am I, an emo teen now?

Looking at me, you’d never guess what I am. In fact, looking at me and the man studying me with a predatory eye, you’d assume he’s the more dangerous one. Which seems more of a threat, a dark-haired, fair-skinned, amber-eyed woman who stands five-foot-nothing and weighs a hundred pounds soaking wet, or a six-foot-and-change, two-hundred-sixty pound, muscle-bound, heavily tattooed, blond, blue-eyed, hairy dude wearing leather and chains?

If someone showed a thousand people our pictures side by side and asked them to pick the werewolf, I’d bet good money he’d be chosen almost every time. They would be wrong, of course. Ever heard of a wolf that large? No.

At least he’s lost interest in the young lady he was targeting earlier. Once I had his attention, I signaled the bartender to help her to slip out the back door and get away. He’s at least as dangerous as he looks, but I’m far more dangerous. Of all the long-running packs, mine is one of the six most respected and powerful in terms of werewolf politics.

Estimates range from a few hundred to as many as thirty-thousand people put to death as werewolves in the witch trials of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. Of those, none were actual werewolves. At least, that’s the history as I’ve been taught.

If anyone should know, it would be my mother who taught me these things. Our family, the Liutprand pack, dates back to the Kingdom of the Lombards in 728. From there, the history lessons are dry and boring but bring us eventually to passage to the New World on The Ambrose in 1630. There were werewolves in Massachusetts before it was Massachusetts.

The pack started a dairy farm and stayed there, at least up to just before the California gold rush. The Liutprand pack left Massachusetts and headed West for more open hunting land. It was there in Oregon that we settled once again. The pack is still there, but I’m here in Chicago, vetting a man my sister wants to bring into the family. It seems their university fling was more serious than I first thought. That means that I’m faced with doing something a wolf should never do, facing a challenge solo. Without the pack, a wolf is vulnerable.

It’s not like the movies, even though I love them. In movies, we’re like superheroes. We don’t heal by transforming, we don’t live hundreds of years, transforming only happens on purpose, and we are born, not made. We don’t have superhuman strength or speed, but we do train to defend ourselves and the pack from an early age. I can already hear the question, so yes, I suppose a silver bullet would kill me, but so would a regular one.

I’ve made sure to keep the big predator’s attention on me. I sent my sister’s suitor home an hour ago. He’s a good guy, solid. I already called my sister and told her to bring him to the pack in Oregon. Remember I said that werewolves are born and not made? If both parents are a werewolf, the child will be as well. If one is not but comes from a family with a werewolf in the wood pile, as it were, there is chance, though small, that the child will be a werewolf.

The days of sending sixteen-year-old sons to marry into another pack are mostly gone. Nowadays, it’s generally after they finish their undergraduate degree, and they aren’t expected to marry one of the daughters at the same time they meet them. Often, those young men end up  like my brother, being a sperm donor for a couple of the girls and settle into a life as part of the pack without marrying in.

It’s amazing how far a mind can wander when thinking about the danger ahead is too uncomfortable. Unfortunately, that’s what I need to be thinking about now. He’s huge, and if he gets a hand on me, I’ll be in a world of hurt. The narrow alley halfway down the block would make a good place for an ambush. He won’t have much room to maneuver, and there are plenty of places I can hide and transform before he makes it to me.

I’ve been acting more and more drunk, and as a small woman alone, the predator has made up his mind that I am his prey tonight. With my plan firmly in mind, I got up from the bar, weaving a bit as I head toward the door. I heard his boots behind me as I neared the exit. Subtle he was not.

I half-stumbled out the door, then stood up and walked briskly as soon as I was out of sight. When I heard his boots on the sidewalk behind me, I kept up my pace, though my path swerved from one side of the sidewalk to the other. I wasn’t sure how drunk I looked, but he kept up following.

Here I was in the liminal spaces again; between buildings, between the relative safety of the semi-lit streets and the wall that turned the space into a dead-end, between life and death. I reached the blind alley and headed in, hoping I looked like a drunk ducking into the alley for a piss. I sprinted to the far end of the alley and dropped behind a dumpster where I transformed and stepped out of my heels.

That’s another thing that’s unlike the movies. It doesn’t take minutes to transform, and it isn’t painful. At least a few get it right with the transformation happening in an instant. We don’t have to be nude to transform, and we certainly don’t get bigger and rip our clothes. Ever seen a wolf wearing a little black dress? Well, this guy did.

When I tell you that I let a predator more than twice my size follow me down a blind alley, you would assume that I would be the one to suffer from my poor choices. Spoiler — you would be wrong. I don’t know if he survived, and frankly, I don’t care. Judging by the amount of his blood soaked into my clothes, however, I doubt it.

Trunk Stories

Cell Mates

prompt: Two strangers discover they have a hidden connection that alters their understanding of each other and themselves.

available at Reedsy

The walls, floor, and ceiling were painted in the precise shade of pale green-grey that led thinking beings to boredom and introspection. Those with a reduced capacity for introspection, however, would find the color maddening after some time. Those unfortunate souls ended up in solitary.

Troy was not a large man. He stood 164 centimeters and weighed in at just fifty-four kilograms. He had no fat under his warm brown skin, though, to hide his thin muscles, making him look almost starved. As such, his friends offered “advice” for his time behind bars. That advice was based on fiction and stereotypes; “join a faction like the Sons of Adam, you can remove the tattoos when you get out,” “try to beat up the biggest guy there the first day,” “just keep your head down and don’t look anyone in the eye.”

None of the advice was useful. There was no way to join — or even find — a faction in the prison, and a fight would just add time to his sentence. With meals taken in the cell, delivered by guards, and a rotating schedule for yard time in one of the sixty exercise yards, Troy guessed that two prisoners might encounter each other twice a year at most, unless they were cell mates.

It was while he was contemplating the isolation of the prison that the electronic lock on the door buzzed. Troy looked up from where he lay on the bottom bunk. A guard looked into the cell, then turned to the hulking shadow behind him. “In here.”

He stepped out of the way, and a second guard followed an orc carrying a rolled-up mattress, blanket, pillow, spare uniform, and laundry bag. The dun-skinned orc with ivory tusks and too many scars to count was easily twice Troy’s weight, and head and shoulders taller.

“Top bunk, inmate,” the first guard said.

“Are you sure, boss?” the orc asked. “I’m pretty heavy.”

The guard raised his stun baton. “I meant what I said. Top bunk.”

Troy rolled out of his bunk and retreated to the far side of the cell. He controlled his face, hiding the fear that gripped him.

The orc nodded at the guard and with a leap landed on his back on the top bunk, which didn’t let out even a squeak at the abuse. “Top bunk it is, boss.”

Troy didn’t want to turn his back on the orc, but he felt a sudden, urgent need to urinate. He decided to do it while the guards were there in the cell, to ensure his back was protected.

“Really, inmate?” one of the guards asked. “You couldn’t wait for us to leave?”

Troy finished up and flushed the commode. “No, sir, I couldn’t.”

The other guard said, “When you gotta’ go, you gotta’ go. Stevens, Irontooth here is your new cellie. Show him the ropes, and make sure he follows the rules. He fucks up, it’s on you.” With that, the guards left, and the door locked behind them.

Troy returned to his bunk and lay down, his eyes watching every move of the huge orc. The time for introspection had passed, Troy was gripped with the alert focus that comes from adrenaline.

They ate their dinner in silence. The guard that retrieved their empty trays told Troy to show the orc how to properly make up his bunk.

Troy put on his most confident face and talked the orc through the steps to make his bunk. He was an attentive student and picked it up right away.

Troy fell asleep with the feeling that the orc could attack at any time, but it would result in a trip to the hospital and at least he’d see something different. He woke in the morning to the subtle, silent movements of the orc shifting around on the solid bunk above him. He sat up and coughed. At some point, he would have to turn his back on his cell mate, and what happened then would be anyone’s guess.

He stood and looked at the orc sitting cross-legged on his bunk, dark circles under his golden eyes. Troy sighed. “Did you get any sleep last night?”

The orc shook his head.

“Why?”

“I was waiting for you to attack.”

Troy laughed so hard he had difficulty calming down to breathe. When he saw that only made the orc more nervous, he collected himself. “Troy Stevens,” he said. “What’s your name other than inmate Irontooth?”

“Irgontook. Den Irgontook,” the orc said, “not Irontooth.”

“Yeah, the guards aren’t all the sharpest tools in the shed. What made you think I would attack someone your size?” Troy leaned against the wall.

“I thought you were in the Sons of Adam, and I thought you would shank me in the middle of the night,” Den said.

“What gave you that idea?”

Den cleared his throat. “When you — when you took a piss in front of me and the guards, like you were marking your territory. It’s like you had an advantage of some sort.”

Troy laughed again. “The only reason I did that was because I didn’t want to turn my back on you while we were alone. I was scared that you would decide I was in the way and would break me in half.”

“But you went right to sleep,” Den said, “not the actions of someone scared. I thought that meant you felt well-protected.”

“It’s more that I figured if you were going to jump me, I’d either die and not know about it, or I’d end up in the hospital and get to look at a different room. Anyway, Den, I’m not with those assholes. Assuming that I am because I’m human would be like me assuming you’re a gangbanger because you’re an orc. You aren’t, are you? You don’t look like the gang type.”

Den shook his head. “I’m a firefighter,” he said. “That’s the closest to a gang I ever got.”

“What landed you here?”

“Possession with intent to sell. But it’s not like it’s true.” Den stretched out on the bunk. “I carried an elf out of a fire, laid her on a stretcher, and a bag of pills fell out of her pocket. I didn’t know what was in it, so I picked it up and put it on the stretcher with her. One of the cops on scene assumed it was mine, and the public defender was useless. What about you?”

“Old news.” Troy sat down next to the wall. “You heard of the Salem Seven?”

Den propped himself up on one elbow. “The group that went to prison over the voting thing? I thought they were all orcs.”

“They were. And their sentences were vacated by Parliament after two years, when the High Court finally decided that the Voting Restrictions Act they were protesting was, in fact, unconstitutional.”

“So, what does that have to do with you?” Den asked.

Troy chuckled. “In a stunning display of racism, the four elves, three humans, and two dwarves on the High Court decided that seven orcs couldn’t organize it on their own and were following orders of ‘someone smarter’ somewhere. I was the unlucky bastard lawyer they set their sights on. I did some pro-bono work for the group, was at the protest, and had assisted by printing posters and sending emails for them, but the court decided that I was the mastermind that ground the business of the court to a halt for an entire week.”

Den sat bolt upright. “They what? Orcs are too dumb to protest without a human leading them? What the hell? I suppose they think OLM is led by a human or elf or something, too?”

Troy shook his head. “Keep in mind, this was twenty years ago.”

“If they’re out,” Den asked, “why are you still here?”

“I wasn’t included in the Salem Seven trial. Instead, I was charged with conspiracy to subvert government functions and given the maximum sentence of forty years with no possibility of parole. I’ll be seventy-two when I get out.” Troy stood and stretched. “The lead judge on my case called me a ‘traitor to my country and race’ before instructing the court reporter to strike that comment.”

“Damn. So, the lead judge was a human?” the orc asked.

“No, Judge Ellen Starcher, elf. You know, the um….” Troy trailed off.

“The new lady elf on the High Court?” Den asked. “The one that everyone says should retire?”

“Yeah, that’s the one.”

Den leaned forward. “So, what happens now?”

“Assuming you don’t break me in half, I’m not planning on shanking you — or anyone, for that matter.” Troy chuckled. “Now that we’re both over being scared of each other, I guess we do our time. And if you want, I can help you work on your appeal.”

Trunk Stories

The Helping Hand

prompt: Show how an object’s meaning can change as a character changes.

available at Reedsy

1984:

Gwen lay on the grass in the circle of mushrooms, drawing Fae-touched Fran, her comic heroine. Like her, Fran was a recent high-school grad, just a hair over five feet tall, with strawberry blonde hair, one green and one brown eye, and a spattering of freckles across her pale face.

Unlike her, Fran had been given a gift by the fae, The Helping Hand, a pendant that allowed her to teleport anywhere she desired, that just as often took her instead to where she was needed. Fran had no other superpowers, instead relying on her knowledge and day-to-day skills and talents to solve problems.

Gwen knew the fae weren’t real, mushroom rings were caused by the spreading mycelium, and teleportation and magic were as fictional as the fae. Still, the setting helped put her in the right frame of mind for Fran’s origin story.

It was while she was putting together the panels where Fran first found the pendant that something in the grass caught her eye. A glint of something metallic, less than two feet from where she lay. Gwen reached out and picked it up. It was a length of silver chain with a pendant. She turned the pendant over. It looked exactly as she had drawn The Helping Hand.

A pendant with a hand would have been one consequence too many. With the hand in the complicated pose she’d drawn — she was quite proud of how it had turned out — it was too much.

With shaking hands, Gwen clasped the chain around her neck. She held her portfolio in her left hand, grabbed the pendant with her right and thought of her bedroom.

She didn’t have time to feel silly about it, as she had no sooner thought of her room than she was there. Through practice and experimentation Gwen learned a few things. She didn’t need to hold the pendant to teleport, she should pick a quiet place near where she meant to go that she could show up to avoid having to explain how she appeared out of nowhere, most of the help she showed up for was of the mundane sort of lift this or push that, and the fae were very, very real.

1986:

Gwen had enough of Fae-touched Fran complete to fill two eight-issue volumes. Since her portfolio went everywhere with her, every spare moment was spent expanding the world of Fran, her own experiences adding color and flavor to the series.

She left work one evening after the mall closed, found herself alone and too tired to walk home, so she teleported. Rather than her studio apartment, however, she found herself standing in front of a shocked man in a beige business suit, trying to balance on a rolling office chair to change a light.

Gwen dropped her case and held the chair steady. “Go ahead and finish what you’re doing,” she said. “I can explain later.”

The man changed the light bulb, taking far longer than he should have, owing to his watching her rather than what he was doing. When he stepped down, Gwen picked up her portfolio, ready to disappear from this unknown man’s life forever. She was stopped though, by his question.

“Are you a superhero?” he asked.

“What?”

“You just appeared out of thin air.” He cleared his throat and extended a hand. “Sorry. Mike Jeffkins, owner and managing editor of Martial Comics.”

Gwen shook his hand. “Gwen Brookes, shift manager, Central Mall food court. That’s in British Columbia, by the way. I take it we’re in New York?”

“Baltimore. You said you could explain?”

Gwen thought about showing him her work but felt it would be out of place. Instead, she started telling him the story of how she’d been drawing a comic and discovered the pendant.

He stopped her. “Is that what you have in the case — the comic?”

Gwen nodded. “It’s probably not good enough.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Mike said. “Let’s take a look.”

She laid her sketch pads on the desk, and he began to read. She watched as his fingers traced the lines just above the paper. He was feeling the flow of the panels as she had laid them out, with the lines in each leading into the next, bringing the eyes along.

He read through the entire volume one and started on volume two which opened with the flashback to Fran finding the pendant. Mike looked up from the page to the pendant hanging around Gwen’s neck.

“This is where you found the pendant?”

“I was drawing this panel,” she said, pointing at the panel where Fran dons the necklace, “when I saw it in the grass. But everything in these were drawn in the order you just read them.”

“I see the improvement in your confidence. The lines are bolder and flow even better than in the earlier pages. But,” he said, “if you found it then, how did…?”

“One thing I’ve learned, the fae exist and are fickle. They must’ve thought it would be a kick to make my silly story true.” Gwen shrugged. “I try not to think too hard about it. Besides, this thing rocks. Do you have any idea how useful it is to just teleport where you want to go?”

1998:

Martial Comics was bought out by one of the big publishers, and Fran was killed off in their massive team-up and cross-over series. Without responsibilities to her comic, Gwen found herself idle. She decided to take some local classes. Basic household maintenance classes included fixing leaking faucets, changing light fixtures, switches, and plugs. She learned basic automotive maintenance, gardening, and how to groom dogs.

She wished she hadn’t learned how to groom dogs when she teleported to a muddy dirt road somewhere in the Midwest. Before her stood a shivering husky puppy, his coat matted and caked with mud providing no protection against the cold rain. She carried the poor, bedraggled critter down the road to a veterinary office — with no groomers on staff, of course.

By the time she finished getting the pup clean, dry, and in the care of the vet, she’d missed her dinner date, and her new dress was ruined. After returning home to trash the torn, stained dress with piles of dog hair all over it, she removed the necklace and stuffed it under the jumble in the kitchen junk drawer.

When she woke in the morning, it was back around her neck. She left it at home on the nightstand while she took the four-hour drive to the coast for some much-needed relaxation. She was flying down the highway when it materialized around her neck again.

Locking it in a fire safe didn’t work. The bank’s safe deposit box didn’t fare any better. She tried shipping it to a paranormal investigator halfway across the country, but before she got home from the post office, it was back around her neck.

She looked at it in the mirror. “Why won’t you leave me alone?” she asked. “I’m sick of you.”

2011:

Gwen had begun approaching it like a job a few years prior. Five days a week she would teleport somewhere three or four times, until she inevitably ended up somewhere she didn’t expect. Once there, she did whatever had to be done and teleported back home.

She’d talked more than one person down from the figurative ledge, and a young woman from a literal one. She coddled infants while their overwhelmed mothers got a break, tended toddlers while the day-care workers located the source of smoke or held off a non-custodial parent, and helped teens deal with their angst in healthy ways.

She’d changed countless tires and repaired switches and outlets in everything from single-wide mobile homes to mansions. She had to stifle her laughter after fixing a dripping faucet in a multi-million-dollar home led to the owner being so relieved he cried. The faucet stopped dripping, but now he is, she thought.

On days when she wasn’t teleporting here and there, she sought out mushroom circles and sat in them in hopes that the fae would return and take the burden from her. When that didn’t happen, she resigned herself to her burden.

The publisher that had killed off Fran decided to bring her back in a teen dramedy, and Gwen was invited as a writer. The new owners of the publisher were fans and wanted her pure vision.

The entire run of Fae-touched Fran was re-released under a renewed Martial Comics banner, providing Gwen with more royalties in a year than she’d gotten from the original Martial Comics in twelve. She maintained her simple lifestyle though, and the money she didn’t need went to charity at the end of each month.

2024:

Gwen had just finished helping a farmer get her tractor running in Iowa and tried to teleport back home, only to find herself in a hospital room. Red tape with the letters “DNR” in white was stuck to the headboard, the heart monitor, and the chart on the wall. In the bed next to her lay a grey, pallid old man with a familiarity she couldn’t place, until he opened his eyes.

“Mike?”

“Gwen,” his voice was just above a whisper and wavered as if it took all his strength to talk. “I was wishing you were here, and now you are.”

She pulled a chair next to the bed, sat, and held his hand. “I’m here, Mike. I’m sorry I haven’t written or called in so long. I didn’t even know you were sick.”

“I’m just as bad,” he said. “After my brother died last year, I’ve been so alone. I thought about calling you a thousand times but thought it would’ve been weird.”

“No weirder than me popping up out of nowhere twice in your life.” Gwen sighed. “Most of what I do amounts to little more than I did for you — holding a chair so you didn’t fall.”

“You did more than that.”

“Well, sure. I’ve helped a few people at least with bigger things. Most cases, though, it’s nothing more than a couple minutes of simple assistance.” Her vision blurred behind tears. She knew why she was there and hoped it would be more than a couple minutes.

“I don’t think you understand,” he said. “Holding the chair wasn’t what I needed, Fran was what I needed. Without it, Martial would’ve gone bankrupt long before the big boys swooped in and bought it out. You saved me, in a very literal sense.”

“I wish I could do something now,” she said.

“You are. I sat with my brother, hard as it was, to make sure he didn’t die alone. Now I won’t die alone, right?”

“You won’t. I’m not going anywhere.”

“I saw the show, thought it was pretty good.” He closed his eyes, and a slight smile crossed his face. “They were smart to put you on the writing team for it. I knew it was your work in the first two minutes of the first episode. It wouldn’t be the same without you.”

“Thanks, Mike. Your opinion means more to me than anyone else’s. You saw my raw talent and took on an untrained kid.” Tears began to trek down her cheeks unbidden. “You saved me, at least as much as I saved you.”

“Fine, kid. We’re even. I’m glad you’re still doing it,” he said, “but for the life of me I can’t figure out why. I would’ve given up on teleporting years ago if it meant I’d keep getting flung to the ends of the earth to help strangers hold a ladder or whatever. Why?”

“Why am I still doing it?” Gwen patted his hand. “I tried quitting, more than once. The longest I got was five weeks. It’s not even about the teleporting. I knew I could help people, and yet I wasn’t. That made me despise myself. So, I decided to keep doing it as long as I’m able.”

“I’m glad, because it means you’re here now. I never told you this, but I always thought of you as the daughter I never had. Every success of yours made me proud.”

“You know the entire crew at Martial called you ‘Dad’ behind your back, right?” she asked.

“I knew. It felt good, like maybe I was important to someone.”

“Ever since that first meeting you’ve been important to me,” Gwen said.

Mike winced and let out a long breath.

“What is it?”

“I’m just tired,” he said.

“I’ll let you sleep,” she said, holding his hand in both of hers, “and I’ll be right here holding your hand.”

Gwen held his hand and listened as his breathing slowed and eventually stopped. She didn’t release his hand until the doctor came in and turned off the monitors. She felt the weight of the pendant against her chest as she made her way to the nearest restroom to teleport out unseen.

She stood in her living room trying to decide what the pendant was to her now. It had started as the best thing ever, turned into a curse, a burden, and now, she realized, it was as natural to her as breathing. The Helping Hand, she decided, just — was.

Trunk Stories

Nondescript

prompt: Write a story about an unsung hero.

available at Reedsy

Elijah was the sort of person that could disappear in a “crowd” of three. There was nothing about his looks that stood out. Medium height, build, hair color, skin tone, and immediate impression. He was both an “everyman” and no-one in particular. That suited him just fine, though.

He checked the balance of his savings account, what was left over from his mother’s life insurance after paying her debts. He stepped out of the shotgun shack he’d inherited from his grandparents by way of his mother. A quick scan of the small, gravel plot showed him no weeds on his tiny property.

A trip to town, he thought, was the plan for the day. There was something that drove him, compelled him, to help others. Elijah didn’t feel like himself without it. The fact that those he helped couldn’t recognize him after was fine. He didn’t do it for praise, just to feel — if only for a moment — normal.

He parked his second-hand, beige Toyota in the middle of the grocery store lot. A woman with a full cart, including a toddler and an infant in a convertible car seat, walked out of the store to her SUV parked close to the doors. She wrangled the children into the car, then unloaded the groceries.

Elijah got out of his car, noting the distance to the doors, the cart corral, and the woman’s children in her car. He waved a hand over his head, “You can just leave that there and I’ll take it,” he called out.

The look of relief on her face was all he needed to see. She gave a harried smile and got into her SUV and pulled away. Elijah retrieved the cart and returned it to the stack inside the door. He hadn’t planned on shopping — or anything else for that matter — but a cold drink sounded good.

A bottle of decaffeinated iced tea in hand, he stood in line at the cash register. The man in front of him was growing agitated with the cashier and began to berate her. As his tirade increased, Elijah saw him reach behind his back to pull a pistol.

Time slowed for Elijah, allowing him to toss his drink on the shelf and grab the man’s wrist before he could draw. With the man surprised by the unexpected grab, he froze.

Elijah leaned forward, his arm around the man’s waist, and whispered in his ear, “I know you’re having a bad day, but it doesn’t have to end like this. Please, for the sake of everyone who loves you, don’t do it. The young lady checking your groceries isn’t who you’re really mad at. Look at her, she’s frightened and crying, and why? No reason.”

He stepped back and picked up his drink from the shelf. The man in front of him stood for a moment, then his shoulders dropped. His hand, still empty, fell to his side and he stared down at nothing. Tears pooled in his eyes and began to fall down his cheeks.

His voice barely above a whisper, he said, “I’m sorry, it’s not you, you don’t deserve this. I don’t know what to do, I don’t know….”

Elijah handed the man a calling card for a crisis phone line. “It’ll work out. These people can help.”

As he walked back to his car, he saw the man sitting on the sidewalk near the store, talking on his phone, tears streaming down his face. The people on the phone were good, Elijah knew that. They had helped him when his mother passed.

He got into his car and pulled the pistol he’d lifted from the man’s holster. He ejected the magazine, pulled the slide back to eject the round in the chamber and let it stay locked open. He put the round into the magazine and set the pistol on the passenger seat. His next stop was obvious; the police station to turn in a found weapon.

Part of him felt bad for taking the man’s pistol, but the other part was concerned that he might carry through with the next encounter. Of course, the possibility that he might harm himself was there, too, and Elijah wasn’t going to let that happen.

He’d been honest with the officer about how he ended up in possession of the pistol and the officer led him to an interrogation room and told him to wait, as they might be charging him with felony theft. After he’d waited for an hour, he stepped out of the room and asked the officer watching the rooms if he was still needed. She seemed to be surprised to see anyone there, looked at her clipboard, and told him that he was free to go.

Next to the police station was a used bookstore, and he went in to browse. While he looked over the shelves of used paperbacks, the officer that had taken his statement and told him to wait in interrogation walked in. He browsed the shelves next to Elijah with a slight nod and no hint of recognition.

Elijah found a series of paperback fantasy novels by a dead author he’d never heard of and picked them up. The entire series was there, so no danger of getting invested and having to wait for the next. He loaded the books into his trunk and was about to get in when he saw a runaway stroller.

Time slowed down as he dodged through the crossing traffic. He reached a point past the intersection, in front of the oncoming stroller and braced himself. Straddled wide so the wheels wouldn’t hit his legs, he grabbed the sides of the stroller and shifted his weight to his right foot, bringing it to a stop in a large arc.

He pushed the stroller out of the street to the sidewalk and looked inside. Expecting a baby, he was surprised to see a small dog with a pink bow on its head. The dog seemed happy to see him, licking his hand and wiggling under his pets.

A few others gathered around to see what was going on. The elderly woman toddling down the hill was beside herself. “My baby! My baby!”

Elijah handed control of the stroller to her. “Safe and sound.”

“Thank you so much!” She knelt in front of the stroller and began baby-talking the dog. The crowd, seeing it was a dog, began to clear. “Was my baby scared? Was that a scary, scary ride? I know, right? My poor baby Posie. Mama’s here, and you’re okay now. We’ll get you some num-nums from the doggie bakery. What a big day.”

Elijah had stepped back and turned to go when the woman stopped him. “Yes?” he asked.

“Did you see the young man that saved my baby? I wanted to thank him.”

Elijah smiled and shrugged. “Sorry,” he said, as he walked back to his car. It was better that he didn’t have to deal with her — or anyone at all, really. He was truly unremarkable, instantly forgettable, and that suited him just fine.

Trunk Stories

Campaign

prompt: Write a story with a big twist.

available at Reedsy

“That smug bastard’s done it again.” Penelope made a fist and the small gem in the wall went dark, taking the wall-sized image of the dwarf’s press conference coverage with it. She banged her warm brown fist on the table, her blonde-tipped, brown hair falling in waves around her face as she dropped her forehead to fist, hiding her hazel eyes. “He just laid out the entire transportation plan we just finalized last night.”

“We can fix this.” The elf with charcoal-grey skin, bright violet eyes, and long, straight, snow-white hair pulled into a severe braid took a step toward the desk. “We should go to the press, back door, ‘unnamed inside source’, let them know our campaign has a leak, and Ironstrike is taking our policies public before we can.”

“Really, Agatha? You’re my campaign manager, and I thought you were my friend. That will make me look weak and incompetent, and whiny to boot. I may not have your experience, but I know that’s not how the game is played. It’s a dirty game, I get that — but you — find the leak!”

“Yes, Ms. Gonzales,” Agatha said with a slight bow.

“I’m sorry I snapped. Please, let’s just continue to be Aggie and Pen. I don’t know what I’d do in this town without you.” Penelope raised her head to give Agatha an apologetic smile.

Agatha stepped around the desk and put an arm around Penelope’s shoulders.“You’ll always be little Pen.”

Penelope leaned her head against Agatha’s shoulder. It brought back memories of childhood, when Agatha was her teacher, substitute parent, and frequent partner in crime, sneaking in forbidden sweets for her. “Why does everything have to change?”

“That’s just the way the universe works,” the elf said, petting Penelope’s hair. “Besides, if nothing changed, you wouldn’t be the first human to get this close to nomination for Premier, would you?”

“We have good ideas, at least. If not, Ironstrike wouldn’t be rolling them out as his own.” Penelope chuckled. “He’s been in the game for what, five, six decades? He certainly knows how to work the media.”

“But,” Agatha said, “he wouldn’t know a good policy or decision if it bit him on the ass. Deva Singh, his manager, has to be involved. Still, if he does win the nomination, he would be a fool not to choose you for VP.”

Penelope sat up and straightened her back. “Find out who’s been talking to the Ironstrike campaign and uncover all their communications. I don’t care if it’s a speech writer winking at one of his interns, anything that ties any member of my campaign to his, dig up everything.”

“We won’t have any legal standing to—”

“Doesn’t matter. Get it done. I know you have technical and magical contacts that skirt the edges of legality. Use them if you have to. We have to find the mole.”

“I’ll hire a PI. That way, any possibly less-than-legal actions they take won’t blow back on you. I’ll make sure whoever I hire has complete access to all my communications for the last year and inform them they are to report directly to you.”

“Agatha, come on. I know it isn’t you.”

“But I have more communication with the Ironstrike campaign than anyone else around here.” She crossed her arms. “It’s only fair.”

Penelope nodded. “Fine. What’s on the agenda?”

“Final hearing with the Parliamentary vetting board at eleven, then you’re free until the fundraiser at the Met Gallery, eighteen-hundred.” Agatha pursed her lips. “I can’t join you for the hearing, I think I’ll reach out to Deva, take her to lunch, see if I can get some information from her about who’s been talking. I’ll record our conversation for the PI, too.”

“Thanks.” Penelope stood, moved her hand in a small gesture that made the gem in the wall pulse once before a section of the wall became a mirror. “I should get myself squared away before the hearing.”

Penelope’s phone rang and she answered as Agatha left her office. “Good morning, Ms. Underhill. … Sure, Janey. … Uh-huh … right … thank you. That seriously calms my nerves. See you at eleven.”

Deva Singh’s phone rang. The number was unlisted, but she answered with, “What do you have for me?”

The deep voice on the other end, warped with some sort of magitech said, “Word is that the Gonzales hearing is a formality, the vetting committee has already decided she’s cleared. Her campaign manager floated the possibility of Vice Premier under Ironstrike, and she didn’t turn it down.”

Before Deva could respond the other party disconnected the call. Her tail twitched, and her horns itched. She looked in the mirror at her deep red skin, jet-black hair, and red eyes in black sclera. She wondered how she ended up working in politics. It was far outside what she thought she’d be doing when she got her PhD in Social Work.

Her office door opened, and a red-headed dwarf wearing a bespoke suit stepped in. “What is it, lass? Wondering again how you ended up in Capitol City?” He had lines around his brown eyes, and shots of grey at his temples. His beard was in a four-plait braid with a green ribbon run through it.

“Morning, Hank. Something like that.” She sighed. “Our secret benefactor called again.”

“What’s the word?”

“Vetting is a done deal, and Agatha Blackstone floated the idea of the VP to Gonzales. She didn’t turn it down.”

“She has great ideas, but not the political capital to get it done.” He smoothed his beard. “As soon as she drops her candidacy, I’m offering her the position.”

Deva’s phone rang again, and she answered on speaker. “This is Singh, you’re on speaker.”

“Hey, Deva, Agatha. Are you free for lunch? I want to pick your brain on something.”

“Sure. Orcish at Mama Magthurg’s at twelve?”

“Spicy noodles sounds good. See you there. My treat.”

Deva disconnected. “She wants to know who the mole is.”

“Any luck on that front?” the dwarf asked.

“Nothing yet.” She turned off the mirror and turned to look down at the dwarf from her two meter-vantage. “Does using her plans to flesh out your own not feel dirty to you?”

“No … yeah … a little. But that’s how the game is played.” He straightened his suit that didn’t need it, and said, “Keep looking. If we find the mole before they do, we’ll tell her. She doesn’t need that sort of disloyalty in her camp.”

“And you acting on that disloyalty? What’s that?”

“Politics, lass. Pure politics.” He checked the time. “I’m sitting in on Ms. Gonzales’ vetting hearing, so I better go.”

Deva nodded. “Later, Hank.”

Agatha and Deva sat in the back of Mama Magthurg’s, enjoying their spicy noodles. Agatha looked across the booth at the demon across from her. “You know what I’m going to ask.”

“I know,” Deva said. “We hired a PI, but she’s run into a dead-end. None of the calls are long enough to trace with tech or magic.”

“But they’re coming straight to you?” Agatha asked.

“Yeah. And my phone is tapped in  order to trap him or her.”

“Him or her?”

“The voice is distorted.”

“I just got off the phone with a PI myself. We’re probably going to tap everyone’s communications.” Agatha frowned. “I doubt it’ll help, though. They’re probably using a burner phone.”

“Do you think Ms. Gonzales has a chance at the nomination?” the demon asked.

“Not really. I’m just involved in her campaign because I’ve watched her grow up, and I know the kind of person she is.” Agatha’s smile was sad. “She wants to help people, really help them, and that doesn’t translate well to political clout.”

Deva cleared her throat. “This isn’t a promise or anything of the sort, but Hank is making noises about offering her the Vice Premier role. She’d be able to do a lot of good there and gain the political clout to carry her further.”

“As if she’d be young enough to run as Premier after Ironstrike serves three full terms.” Agatha shook her head. “She’s already fifty, and in twenty-one years she won’t be taken seriously as a candidate.”

Deva shrugged. “Anyway, I thought I’d put it out there, so you aren’t blindsided when Hank calls.”

Agatha chuckled. “I told her this morning that he’d do well to have her as his VP choice.”

“Wait, this morning?” Deva leaned forward. “Who else was there?”

“Just Pen and myself.”

Deva looked at Agatha in shock. “Her office must be bugged. The mystery caller told me about it just before you called.”

“Shit. I’ll send the PI over to scour her office now. Maybe the bug will tell us who the mole is.” Agatha dropped a couple large bills on the table and left in a hurry, making a call on her phone as she went.

No sooner had Agatha disappeared around the corner than Deva’s phone rang. The mystery caller again. “Make your move tomorrow morning. The human’s going to highlight wand control at her fundraiser tonight, which will push her right out of the running.” The caller hung up before Deva could say anything.

The fundraiser was a bust. Penelope laid out the only policy that Ironstrike hadn’t stolen from her, wand control. She explained in detail how wands beyond cantrip power would be regulated in the same way guns were, in order to keep them out of the same hands that they wanted to keep guns from.

It was hot-button topic, and not something any politician hoping for election should broach. She knew it could backfire, and it did. Still, she played the role well until the event ended. She sat on a table and sighed. “That could’ve gone better.”

Agatha didn’t have an answer for her. She’d advised against bringing it up until after election. “I don’t know what to tell you, Pen.”

“I do. Throw in the towel, Aggie. We’re done. I don’t have the backing to stay in the race.” Penelope lay back on the table and laughed. “Now, I can relax. I might even sleep in until six or seven tomorrow.”

“Deva said that your office might be bugged, not that it matters much now.” Agatha sat on the table next to Penelope and stroked her hair. “I sent the PI to your office to find the bug. Maybe that’ll tell us who the mole is … was.”

“You don’t have to,” Penelope said. “I already know.”

Agatha stiffened beside her. “What?”

“I’m not stupid, Aggie.”

“What do you mean?”

Penelope sat up. “It was stupid idea, anyway. A human mayor of a predominantly human, orc, and halfling middle-sized city running for Premier? Never happen in a million years.”

“But—,” Agatha sputtered, “I’m not—”

“Shh, I’m the one telling the story now. It doesn’t help if that human has some more liberal views on social matters than the centerline of the party. I’m just happy our policies have gained the kind of traction they have with Ironstrike’s campaign, however ill-gotten they may be.”

When Penelope was silent for nearly a minute, Agatha asked, “But … who’s the mole?”

“Hmm?”

Agatha stared at Penelope, who raised an eyebrow. “You?”

Penelope nodded.

“You were so convincing that you were angry Ironstrike was stealing your plans.”

“I was angry,” she said, “but not because of that. I was angry that he could spin those as his plans and everyone gobbled it up, but nothing I ever said in twenty years in office, or testifying in front of Parliament, ever got anyone’s attention.”

“They don’t know how smart you are, Pen. That’s on them.” Agatha patted her on the shoulder.

Penelope stood and stretched. “My work here is done.”

“Not so fast,” Agatha said. The look on her face reminded Penelope of her childhood when Agatha was her tutor.

“What, ma’am?”

“You’ll no doubt be hearing from Ironstrike. Deva told me that it wasn’t a promise, but Hank was ‘making noises’ about you as VP pick. He doesn’t make those decisions on his own. It was Deva’s way of letting me know you were about to be tapped.”

“I guess I could do that,” Penelope said, “after I sleep in for one day at least.”

“But what about Premier? If he does three terms, you’ll be—”

“I know how old I’ll be. Aggie, let me tell you a little secret. My only goal in running in the primaries was to get the party to focus on what matters to the constituents and get out of the political navel gazing they’ve fallen into in the past three decades.

“I don’t have the political weight to get the party talking about things like improving transportation infrastructure or expanding healthcare access. Hank does. I knew those issues would strike a chord in the party and beyond, and get voters fired up. I was right. And Hank has the media skills to make it count.”