tumbleweedshorts

[tumbleweedshorts]

Going Nowhere in Time

A Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy fan fiction

The prompt for this story was the following snippet of dialogue:

"Where are you going?"

"No where."

"Can you do that in a time machine?"

Being a fan of The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams, I wrote this fan fiction story that is actually set immediately before the start of the events in the first book of the series and actually set them up.

The mice stared at the screen, uncomprehending. The series of error messages they were faced with were utterly confusing. They'd fed them to Deep Thought for interpretation, but even she wasn't able to understand them.

They had to warn the planet, but there was no way to do it in time. What made matters worse is that one of the errors on the screen seemed to indicate a complete freeze of time and space in sector ZZ-plural-Z-alpha. The mice had never seen anything like this before.

And now all communication with the planet was inoperative, and the Vogon constructor fleet was on its way... The mice had to brief the Earth and tell them about the plans, so that Fook and Lunkwill could communicate an appeal to the Galactic Hyperspace Planning Council and stop this madness. Unfortunately, those infernally bureaucratic Vogons only accept appeals coming directly from the location affected by the decision.

Then one of the mice made a suggestion. Maybe if they contacted the support team on Magrathea they might get some answers and a way to handle this. They couldn't let their experiment fail now. It had to be close to yielding results.

Meanwhile, on Earth...

In a small cafe in Rickmansworth, England, United Kingdom, a young girl was sitting bolt upright with an excited, far-off, illuminated look in her eyes. She was just sitting there, completely immobile. The pint of beer she had knocked off the bar as she jumped upright with realization was still hovering in midair, tilted, the beer already half-splashed out and two drops already pointing toward the floor with no prospect of arriving there any time soon.

She had just had the idea of a lifetime, a solution to all the trouble and problems of society, a way to really go about it that would allow everyone to live in harmony. An approach to philosophy that would finally let people ask themselves the true ultimate questions of life, the universe and everything, and therefore eventually find an answer. Little did she know it would never come to fruition, as a terrible, stupid catastrophe was on its way.

Halfway across the country, a man named Arthur Dent sat at his post in the radio transmission room, in the middle of saying something more or less exactly boring to less than more exactly millions of potential listeners all around the town. The pencil he had just been fidgeting with, and which had just escaped from his hand, was still stuck in the air, in an apparently stalled jump to the desk below. Dent's other hand was in the air, apparently in the middle of making a gesture to suit his words, a gesture that by the very nature of things nobody would be able to see anyway.

Not far away, a certain Ford Prefect was stuck in the middle of pondering how best to convey his new impressions to the guidebook he was working on. He was hunched over an electronic device with a few buttons, a shiny screen and the words "DON'T PANIC" written in large friendly letters on the back. The screen was in the middle of loading a new page, and it looked like Ford was waiting for the page to finish loading.

In a laboratory in London, Fook and Lunkwill themselves also seemed frozen in place. Fook had just gotten into a hamster wheel for a bit of exercise and still stood there, awkwardly perched on two opposite legs, mouth open and eyes staring blankly. Lunkwill had been jumping down from the top level of the cage, and was somehow stuck in midair in mid-jump.

As in the UK, so all around and across the planet. The only person moving, in fact, was a young man in yet another corner of the country, who was hurriedly rummaging through his notes and diagrams and drawings, trying to understand what the heck had gone wrong with his machine. Little did he know his little mistake was going to cost the planet its existence.

After several minutes of searching, this young man finally stumbled upon a textbook his professor had loaned him. Finally! He opened it up to the page where he'd seen the note. It read, "Be careful of the settings, or you'll go nowhere fast!" And below that was a brief explanation. The experimental time machine he had built was apparently working, but something had apparently led time to freeze in place.

Those few extra lines didn't give him any new information. But he pondered that "nowhere fast" expression for a few minutes... And a light seemed to turn on in his mind. What exactly is the nature of "nowhere"? Then it struck him. He knew what the problem had been. He had set the machine to go "nowhere". So it had gone nowhere indeed – but in space-time. It hadn't moved. It couldn't move. Not through space, not through time.

That was the problem. But what to do to resolve it? He didn't want to risk any more, but he also couldn't stay in a perpetually frozen world forever. He was going to have to do something. After a few hours of intense calculations, erasures, frustrations, he gave up. The only solution, the best solution he could think of, was simple, but untested. He hadn't been able to evaluate what might happen.

Going back to the time machine, he sat in the chair and stared at the dials. He had set the machine to go "nowhere", or right to the same time so as not to lose any time. Apparently, though, this led to some kind of bug whereby it also froze time entirely. He decided to try something. He set the machine to one minute before his previous attempt. Maybe this would be enough to unfreeze time. Nervously, he pressed the button.

*

In another dimension, the mice suddenly saw things had been restored. The planet had started spinning again. Immediately they picked up their communicator and sent Fook and Lunkwill an urgent message. Just for good measure, they also sent an equally urgent message to the entire dolphin population of Earth.

But they were afraid the damage was already done. The planet had remained apparently frozen in time too long. The Vogon fleet had moved ever closer, and would be there within hours. If they wanted to save their experiment, they had to act immediately, and even that might be too late. There wouldn't be enough time to send out an appeal to Alpha Centauri and stop the fleet. It was too late. But they had to try. The alternative was to lose everything after millions of years of waiting.

*

Fook and Lunkwill were panicking. They had to get a message out to Alpha Centauri at once. Digging through their cage, they found and prepared a sub-ether transmomatic, and dispatched an urgent communication. While Fook was doing that, Lunkwill pulled out two other objects, which looked oddly like thumbs. They each put one on, and sat there, waiting. The time was 3am.

Meanwhile, across all the oceans and the waterparks of the planet, dolphins everywhere were getting hyperactive, thrashing around the water, apparently desperately trying to attract the humans' attention. Eventually, noticing that their two-legged friends were not available to pay attention, they just decided to abandon... well, planet, leaving behind a message: "So long, and thanks for all the fish."

*

Our story begins very simply. It begins with a house.

The house stood on a slight rise just on the edge of the village. It stood on its own and looked over a broad spread of West Country farmland. Not a remarkable house by any means – it was about thirty years old, squattish, squarish, made of brick, and had four windows set in the front of a size and proportion which more or less exactly failed to please the eye...

[tumbleweedshorts]

The Widow

WARNING: Adult themes

TRIGGER WARNING: What with all the hubbub about sexual abuse, and the recent unpleasantness in certain *ahem* circles of government, this might be a controversial topic. And I know that a certain big guy with a bleached mop on his head started positioning men as victims of unfair accusations, at the wrong time and for the wrong reasons. This was written before and completely independently of President Mophead putting us through this awkwardness.

Just to be clear, I thoroughly disapprove of how this was used for awkward political purposes on that occasion. I nevertheless think it raises an important point, one that is unfortunately all too possible. And I hesitated to publish this, knowing the backlash I am likely to get. What convinced me to publish was when I heard of a real-life case of this. Indeed, a friend of mine was actually deliberately victimized in such a way, and couldn’t get out of it, for the same politically correct reasons as always.

All that being said, enjoy.

The party had been a very opulent deal at the Ritz Carlton, with a lot of fancy someones and a lot of fancier someones. The kind of party I had never been able to attend, even just witness. Yet this time, I was there. Granted, I was serving drinks, but I was there. I didn’t know anyone there personally. Some I knew from the news or because they held high positions in who-knows-what.

When I was accepted for this job, I had expected to feel bitter at the sight of all these pompous asses showing off their wealth and power. And I did, at first. But listening to some of them talk as they were standing near the bar, I realized they were a lot more like me than I expected.

When you stripped away the snobbishness that made most of them essentially ignore me all the time, you realized they had much the same interests as us common folk. I was listening to one couple passionately discussing the upcoming World Cup, for example. Some even appeared to have genuine altruistic ideas, as I found out from the two men and one woman who were discussing their donations to the local veterans’ fund.

And I was truly shocked when one couple even started talking to me, commenting on the party, even introducing themselves. Her name was Patty, Patty McPherson, and he was her husband Steve. They chatted with me with apparent ease, and I guessed that these two were more sensitive to people of different backgrounds than most.

When I’d told them what part of town I came from, far from turning their noses up at me as I’d expected they would, they took a real interest, with Steve asking about the recent incidents there and Patty taking an interest in how the community was putting up with the situation. They said that they were involved in a neighborhood rehabilitation project there, that they were happy with the results so far - I’d heard about the project and agreed emphatically - and that they were confident the neighborhood would get better over time.

Before long I’d gotten to the point where my earlier prejudice about the whole crowd had melted away. After a while they were called away into another conversation, apologized and blended back into the crowd. I couldn’t blame them. They weren’t here to talk to the lowly bartender, after all.

An hour later, Patty was back, asking for a drink. The cocktail she ordered was quite beyond me, I didn’t know that recipe at all. Luckily she did, and instructed me on how to make it. It took a while for me to find the exact brandy she wanted. There was only one bottle, kept in a separate location for some reason. Anyway, I finished making the cocktail and gave it to her. She thanked me with a wide smile and turned back into the crowd.

That smile made quite an impression on me. It was then that I noticed how very attractive she was, even for what I guessed to be 45 or 50 years old. Very nice figure, slim but not skinny, round face, fairly smooth skin with only a hint of budding wrinkles, all wrapped up in a beautiful, neatly cut dress that fit her perfectly and highlighted her silhouette.

Another guest came to order a drink then, so I had to push her looks to the back of my mind and get back to work. The rest of the evening went by as you might expect. Toward the end, I was about to close up the bar and leave. Suddenly Patty was there again.

We started talking, and I was surprised how easy it was, how comfortable I suddenly felt. We talked about my neighborhood, and she told me that she had lived there for a few years as a child. We discussed memories of the place, I was curious about her experience there, coming from such a posh environment, and she took an interest in my own childhood.

Then the manager indicated to me that I’d better close up right away. I excused myself but Patty stayed, still talking, while I did so. When I’d finished I ended up standing with her in the hotel lobby, still chatting comfortably. Then she suggested I go with her to her room upstairs for another drink.

I was shocked at that proposal. I didn’t think anyone from that world would ever take such an interest in me. But with her, I had felt very comfortable all evening. I hesitated for a second, and she insisted, saying we’d be more comfortable there. Eventually she gave me that smile again, and I couldn’t resist.

We made it up to the 16th-floor suite, and she went straight to the mini-bar and took out a bottle of wine. She handed it to me along with the corkscrew. I opened the bottle, served two glasses and handed her one. She sat on the bed and motioned to me to sit next to her. We toasted and started sipping our drinks, still chatting.

As we chatted I noticed her leaning closer and closer to me. It was clear to me now that she wanted to get intimate. I wasn’t sure what to do. She kept smiling though, the same enchanting smile she’d already flashed at me a few times. My resolve was beginning to crack.

Several glasses of wine later, she was actually rubbing up against me, and at one point even put her hand on my leg, really close to my crotch. The reaction was swift. Slightly tipsy, and starting to really want her now, I gave in and started kissing her.

We made out passionately for a few minutes. It was bliss, utter bliss. Then she started fiddling with my zipper. This shocked me briefly back into full consciousness of where I was and what I was doing.

"No, we have to stop. This isn't right. You're married."

"I'm a widow."

"But I just met your husband three hours ago."

"My deceased husband. There's been an accident."

"I didn't hear--"

"It hasn't been reported yet."

I sat there, stunned at the news.

“And... you... you...”

“I’m fine with it! He was a domineering jackass. Good riddance! I’m enjoying my freedom now. Come on!”

There was the smile again. And before I knew what else to do, she had undone my zipper, pulled my manhood out and started going down on me.

Minutes later we were making love passionately.

---

The following morning, I woke up beside Patty. But she... she wasn’t herself any more. Still naked, she was bound and gagged, and she was screaming. That must have been what woke me. Not knowing what had happened, shocked at the situation, I made to untie her. She shied away from me. In her fit of hysterics, she was fighting everything away, even me, as I tried to untie her.

When I finally managed it, she started fighting me off, scratching my face so hard I started bleeding profusely. Still naked, I ducked into the suite’s bathroom for some tissues to staunch the bleeding, and while in the bathroom I heard her call what seemed to be 911. She reported she had been raped in her suite at the Ritz.

In the next hour, I was arrested and brought to the police precinct. Apparently Patty had turned on me and accused me of raping her. I had no idea what the hell was going on. As I sat in my cell, I tried to make sense of it all.

The next morning I was taken to an interrogation room and told my version of the facts. Apparently, though, all the evidence of my guilt was there. It looked to them like I had poisoned Steve to get him out of the way, then followed Patty to her suite, forced my way in and raped her. The sedative Steve had been given had been traced to that special brandy that had been kept out of the way at the bar. My DNA was all over the suite, including the rope and gag Patty had been tied up with, there was evidence of a fight (what with the scars on my face), my fingerprints on the guilty corkscrew, and the rape kit had come back positive with my semen.

I had no idea what was going on, except that I was being framed for murder and rape. At this point, I was certainly going to jail for life. And I had no way to prove my innocence. It was her word against mine, and in this politically correct world, my word was worth squat. I might as well give up...

[tumbleweedshorts]

The Fall

That particular toy train had always been my favorite. And my brother knew it right from the start. But he wanted it, and he was the youngest, the favorite, so he took it and never got punished. I always sulked for days when that kind of thing happened, and one day I'd just snapped and hit him. I'd been heavily punished for that.

My fingers were soaked, trying to stop the flow.

Mrs. Bainbridge's history class was boring as hell, as usual. And so there I was, in 6th grade once again, playing battleship with Alfonso, trading discreet signs across the classroom to communicate our moves. Mrs. Bainbridge had already noticed we never paid attention when we sat together, and she'd tried to split us up, which clearly wasn't working.

My eyes suddenly closed, all thought of anything else gone. The room was gone, the other people were gone, my mind was entirely focused on the turmoil inside me.

Ahh, Jessie. I'd had a crush on her for weeks, and Homecoming was fast approaching. I decided to do it. My heart suddenly started beating madly up in my throat, almost choking me.

"Jessie, would you... would you like to go... to go to the Homecoming dance with me?"

Dimly, I became aware of a pain spreading through my body.

The sailboat was handling beautifully, the weather was perfect, and the company even better. We were laughing our heads off over beers, while Dan was steering and occasionally telling one or another of us to adjust the sails. That was when the flying fish hit me right in the face. Somehow, even through my embarrassment, I started laughing too. I never did manage to shake off the nickname "Fishface" from that day on.

A dark shadow was starting to spread in my mind.

"Yes!" Joana answered. I sat there, stunned and ecstatic. She had said yes. We were going to get married. A feeling of intense excitement, of happiness, most of all of deep, intense love filled me to the brim, and I kissed her passionately.

Tears were starting to come out through my tightly shut eyelids. Whether from the ever-spreading pain or from the memory, I didn't know.

I was standing outside the door of my former office, carrying a box in my arms and desperately wondering what I would tell my wife. This was the only job available to me these days, and I needed it to survive. A sudden rush of anger overcame me, but I still had the sense and the discipline to hold it in and not lash out. Damn Ricardo, he's the one who got me into this mess, he framed me!

I opened my eyes. Already the scene in front of me had started to tilt.

I'd come home from my bartending job, the best I could manage at that point with just a high-school education, and found the house empty. There was a note on the kitchen table saying, "Sorry, but I can't continue to live in these conditions. Best of luck, and please don't contact me again."

The shock virtually knocked my knees from under me. I barely managed to stagger into a chair. She'd said if I couldn't find a better situation, she'd leave. Guess she did after all.

The dark shadow was now also spreading around my field of vision.

A dark street, a darker shadow standing over Joel with a gun. The deal had gone bad. Joel had told Rodriguez we couldn't pay him and Rodriguez had pulled his gun out. A split second later I was running, running so hard my heart was beating in my throat again, choking me again. The crash of the second gunshot in the distance seemed to hit me from all sides, with the bullet itself thankfully missing me. I had to get out of town. They would find Joel soon, and I was a 'known accomplice'. I knew I should never have gotten into dealing drugs.

Through the haze of pain and the ever-increasing darkness I vaguely glimpsed the floor rushing up to meet my left cheek.

I'd been hiding out at Alex's place for weeks. Then i'd gotten a phone call to get the hell out. Apparently I'd been betrayed, and Rodriguez was now coming after me. I made my way to the door, but it burst open, with Rodriguez rushing through in a towering rage.

The pain was now stabbing at me all over from the gunshot wound in my chest. I pulled my hand away and saw the dark red blood all over it. A half second later I felt the impact as my body hit the floor. The last thing I saw was Rodriguez, standing over me just as he'd stood over Joel weeks ago.

And then there was, for a brief moment, peace. Utter peace. And then nothing.

[tumbleweedshorts]

Forgive or Forget?

Inspiration: I wrote this from a 1-on-1 prompt “She tried to forget me, but I knew she never would.”. A friend and I would each write a 3,000-word story on the same prompt, then we would swap and compare styles. Anyway, here’s mine.

I got off the bus at the usual stop a block away from my home. Another day coming back from the office. I didn’t pay much attention while walking back. My mind was still at work, where my boss had just told me that day that I had scored a promotion and that starting the following week, I would finally be managing my own team.

It was a really important evolution for me. I’d been working as a simple first-line IT support agent for years, then just as an IT support 2nd-line agent, the one the 1st-line agents ask for help when they need it.  Don’t get me wrong, it’s interesting work, asking questions and pinpointing the exact issue in the user’s computer. But it just wasn’t rewarding enough for me, and I knew I was qualified for more than that. Now I got to be an actual team manager, and that opened up a lot more possibilities for later.

Reaching my apartment door, I absentmindedly opened it and walked inside. Something caught my foot, however, and I knocked it over. Looking around, I found a vase with a few flowers in it, now spilled on the doormat, with some water leaking out. Next to it, already wet with the fallen water, was a note. I immediately knew who that was from. It was Soledad.

I’d met Soledad during my vacation in Spain the previous year. She was a really pretty girl, with a cute, round face, smooth tan skin, big green eyes and long, straight black hair. She didn’t dress particularly sexily but there was something about the way she carried herself, the way she walked, the way she moved, that bespoke a confidence and assurance that only made her a lot more attractive. After a few days’ flirting, we had finally hooked up at her place.

I picked up the vase and the note and took them to the kitchen. Against my better instincts, I opened the note to read it. It was another one of her poems. She was an amazing poet. One thing we’d sometimes done back in Spain was just sit around reading her poems right out of her notebook. I loved her cute little accent, just enough to identify as Spanish but not overwhelming. The musicality and timbre of her voice had been enthralling too.

This poem was like the others, beautiful, descriptive, subtle yet expressive, and passionately erotic. It briefly awoke memories of hot passionate moments with her, and with that I suddenly felt like my jeans had become too tight. But when I remembered what she’d done with her body… I couldn’t face keeping this. I threw the poem and the flowers away, and added the glass vase to the recycling box. I wasn’t going to respond.

This wasn’t the first time she’d tried to reach out, and I was sure it wasn’t going to be the last. It was over with her, and I had made it painfully clear. The previous time hadn’t exactly been fun. It was a Friday night, I’d just finished a shift at midnight and gotten to sleep at 1am. Two hours later, she called, drunk out of her mind on tequila, and said she was grabbing a cab to come over. To my place. To get back together with me. She said that make-up sex was exactly what I needed. Nothing I told her over the phone seemed to convince her not to. Pretty soon she just told me she was coming, and hung up.

Sure enough, within minutes there was a knock at the door. As it was cold, I’d let her into the living room, trying to stay cool and not lose my temper. There ensued a long back-and-forth conversation where she said we should get back together and I said it wasn’t a good idea, that she was drunk, and that she should just let me walk her back to her place. She kept trying to convince me with lewd comments that, together with her sexy attire, was achieving definite results between my legs. I stood firm, however, not wanting to encourage her. I’d been hurt, insulted, devastated by her actions and I didn’t want to expose myself to that again.

By 6am, and after a few trips to the bathroom to throw up, she’d eventually just crashed on the sofa and passed out. I’d pulled a cover over her and retired to my room to try to get some sleep. I managed to catch a few more hours myself and in the morning I did walk her home, explaining what had happened. When we arrived, she tried to invite me upstairs for a cup of coffee “to thank me”, but I politely declined. She sent me off by kissing me on the lips instead of doing the usual European two-kiss greeting.

I’d ignored her since then, even every time she delivered another package at my door. I wasn’t going to file a restraining order against her. I didn’t want to cause her that kind of trouble. I’d figured I’d just wait it out, and hopefully eventually she’d give up. Was that maybe a sign?

Anyway, having gotten rid of this one package, I settled down to have dinner and relax. Within the hour I’d gone through the usual train of thought: remembering the good times, then remembering catching her out, then remembering the stink that had followed, then pushing it deliberately out of my mind. By the time I went to bed that night, I was perfectly fine and normal again.

The next package came two weeks later. It was just an envelope in the mail this time, not stamped – so she had delivered it by hand – and containing another one of her poems. This one expressed longing and desire for a dove that had left. It was, as always, beautifully written. I didn’t even know why I kept reading them. It was like the only thing I appreciated about her now was her writing. But as before, thinking about her brought back the bad memories as well, and I promptly shut them out as usual. I needed to focus on moving on.

Two weeks after that I got home, somehow in my mind half expecting to find something in the mail from her. But there was nothing. For some reason, out of the blue, I had just started thinking about her on my way out of the office. And somehow I hadn’t managed to stamp it out yet. I’d remembered how in Spain she’d said she was just about to move to Lisbon for a job, and asked if we could keep seeing each other. Of course, I’d said yes. I was thrilled at the possibility and the happy coincidence. And indeed, a few short weeks after I’d gotten home, she had arrived and found a place a few blocks away from mine.

Then began the real relationship. We used to hang out a lot, spending virtually every night together either at her place or mine, spending many weekends taking the train or the bus out to some smaller town or other outside Lisbon to visit, or just walking around town together, hand in hand. Her mind was deep, fascinating and inventive. Her smile was infectious and addictive. Her touch was divine.

The phone rang, jarring me back to reality. It was my sister. I picked it up and, as usual, talked to her for a couple of hours, catching up and making plans. I’d been helping her with her startup project, so there was a lot to discuss. By the time I hung up, it was time for bed. I grabbed a quick bite to eat and went to sleep.

A month later another package arrived at my door, just a single flower and a really short poem. In this poem the dove was clearly quoted as being immortal and always in her thoughts. Before throwing it away, I remember feeling a little twinge akin to happiness at how she was thinking about me. But there again, came the shadow of Pedro.

I’d been on my way home from night shift one Sunday morning, and decided to stop by her place to surprise her. I’d made my way up to her apartment, then rung the doorbell. She’d answered, lightly dressed, a bit disheveled and out of breath. Her face, always so expressive, showed her usual radiant smile, but with a small touch of something else. It didn’t strike me immediately. She let me in and kissed me. Then she said she hadn’t expected me, and that before we went to bed she should have a shower as she hadn’t washed after her night out. I’d always loved shower sex with her, so I didn’t protest.

When we’d arrived in the bedroom, I’d immediately spotted it: a cufflink on the floor. It definitely couldn’t have been from one of my shirts. Looking around, I saw a stain on the bed that shouldn’t have been there – we’d spilled a bottle of wine on the bed a couple of nights earlier, and she’d had to change the sheets. I’d stopped and looked around, then straight at her. I’m not generally a suspicious guy, but something hadn’t jibed with me that morning. When I’d confronted her, she’d managed to explain it all away and it seemed reasonably plausible. Her flatmate’s boyfriend had been there the previous evening and must have dropped it, and she had only just spilled a glass of water on her bed. Maybe I’m too trusting. That didn’t make me feel better. I pushed the memories out again.

After a few more weeks, I realized I had been thinking about her again and again, even more often. Our relationship had been excellent, we had gotten along so well over those six months, and I had even started to think about proposing to her. So it makes sense that it should have still been present in my mind. And yet every time it popped up, I banished it again.

Two months after that, just when it seemed like I was finally able to forget her and move on, I got another package. This time she had outdone herself. It was two return plane tickets to the Canaries for a week-long trip, once again alongside one of her poems. Scoffing at this idea, I went to throw it away and immediately banished the thoughts. But they popped up again. I shoved them aside once more, this time diving into the plans for renovating my boat. That always managed to keep me distracted and busy.

Then, three months later, the memories came up again and I wasn’t able to dismiss them for hours. I hadn’t received another package, my mind just drifted to her. I hadn’t picked up on her cheating that first time. I’d bought her sincerity and genuine worry and affection. A couple of months later we had swapped keys, so as not to have to ring and wait every time. I once again dropped by to surprise her after work, suspecting nothing.

Already, before entering her apartment, I’d heard noises. They had sounded as if they might have been coming from upstairs, however. Nevertheless, wanting to literally “catch” her in my arms by surprise, I’d very quietly opened the door, gotten in, and closed it behind me. The noises were indeed coming from her place. Taking my shoes off silently, I’d noticed the noise was coming from the living room. I’d thought that must have been her flatmate in there, and didn’t enter. Instead I’d gone to her bedroom. She wasn’t there, but her purse was.

That had intrigued me. I’d looked through the apartment and found nobody. Then, walking through the hallway past the closed living room door, I’d heard the noises intensify. Soledad had never exactly been discreet in her appreciation of carnal activities, and suddenly I’d heard her voice, unmistakable, moaning with pleasure, louder than anything I’d heard so far. Discreetly, I’d cracked open the living room door. Pedro, her flatmate’s boyfriend, was there, standing behind her, thrusting forward into my Soledad’s exposed bottom with a vengeance. She was leaning over a chair, gladly and willingly offering herself to his manhood, and clearly enjoying it.

After a few seconds of shock, I’d closed the door again, silently, put my key on the shoe cupboard along with a note saying “I saw you. We’re done. Don’t come after me.” I’d gone silently back to her room, and taken my house key out of her purse, before leaving as quietly as I had come. Then there had been weeks of depression, of thinking repeatedly of her, remembering the good times then seeing Pedro again behind her. I’d gotten into a habit of drinking several beers every evening just to be able to sleep. And after that time had passed, I was finally able to cope again, and had learned to push the memories away.

It’s been a year now since that fateful day. And, I realize it, six months since the last package she delivered to me. But the memory of our relationship still haunts me. I’ve been thinking about her, just a little bit here and there, remembering her face or her smile or her eyes or her mannerisms or something in what I saw in people. I figured the memories would probably never be gone, whether the good or the bad ones.

I’ve just about finished renovating my boat, a Columbia 5.5 sailboat with a small cabin that I hope to take for a sail all the way to Tahiti starting next year. Today, I’m at the boat checking everything. It looks in tip-top shape. I’ve done a good job, even though I do say so myself. It’s ready for a test sail this week-end. Suddenly I notice something: a detail in the woodwork. And there’s the kinds of wood chosen. And the colors of the cloths and the linings. None of this was my choice, I realized now.

Somehow my memories of Soledad had permeated all the work I had done on the boat, and snuck into my design choices. I’d never wanted light maple, I’d wanted to get teak for the woodwork. The cloth on the cushions was dark blue, like those flowers left on my doormat so many months ago, and not dark green as I would have liked them. There were a few other details: silver-colored fastenings instead of brass on the cupboards, a shelf on either side of the bed instead of at the foot of it, and the fact that I’d redone the tiller instead of replacing it with a wheel. Those were all her preferences, not mine. She’d made that clear enough.

What had I done? Subconsciously it seemed I had integrated her into the redesign of the boat, all the way into the smallest details. I suddenly remembered the first time I’d taken her out on it. We’d packed a picnic lunch, sailed upwind for a bit, set the boat to a slow drift, had lunch, gotten intimate, then sailed back. I suddenly had a vivid vision of her as she had been back then, sitting naked in the cockpit after the sex with a glass of wine in her hand, beaming up at me, the sun playing hide-and-seek with the rigging’s shadows on her perfect breasts and body.

I shook the memory out of my mind again, and finished the maintenance I needed to complete on the boat. That evening, when I got back home, I found it. Another package, another poem. The package contained a ring. The poem alluded to the ring, quoting it as “the symbol of a missed opportunity, the eternal reminder of a devastating mistake, the guardian of intentions never spoken, and now a shameful keepsake and a plea for forgiveness”. The implication was clear. She had wanted to propose to me as well.

I moved to throw the ring and the poem into the trash can. But somehow I couldn’t. I’d started to realize that maybe things weren’t as clear-cut as I’d thought. Maybe I could forgive her. It all came down to one thing: was fidelity really more important than building a couple, a relationship, maybe one day – I thought as I stared down at the ring – a family? She clearly hadn’t forgotten me, and I was finding it increasingly difficult to ignore and forget her. They had been such good times, with only that one dark patch on the record. Wasn’t I able to overlook that and take steps to rebuild something great with Soledad?

I fidgeted absentmindedly with the ring, lost in thought. Yes, I thought, I could overlook that mistake. I could start again with her and build something strong. I could talk this over and solve it. More than that, I wanted to. I knew we could do it. And now that I was certain, I wasn’t going to give up.

I went out that evening for a drink on my own to think it over in a more relaxed setting. As I was sitting there with a glass of wine, someone sat next to me at the table.

“I see you’re wearing the ring I sent you.” It was Soledad. Had she been following me? I tried to feel angry about that but failed.

Suddenly, looking at my hand, I realized that it was indeed true. I was at a loss for words. Had my subconscious decided for me? Betrayed me?

“Oh, yeah.” I replied, trying to sound non-committal and making to remove it. This is not how I pictured how it would happen. I had imagined being able to think it over before seeing her. I had imagined being able to discuss things before making my decision. But this development put me in a much less defensible position. As I was removing the ring, however, Soledad put her hand on mine, effectively stopping me. She leaned in to kiss me, and I found my resistance leaking away. I kissed her back. It was bliss. For the first time since the break-up, I was happy. There would be ample time to discuss Pedro and what had happened. For now, I was just glad to have her back.

[tumbleweedshorts]

Family Secrets (part 6/6)

Inspiration: This the sixth and final part of a longer story, Family Secrets, that I wrote from a prompt seen on Facebook. If you haven’t read it yet, you can find part 1 here, part 2 here, part 3 here, part 4 here and part 5 here

Angela pulled herself together and said, "Now?" She started to look around her, apparently unsure what to do. Then her gaze fell upon Johann's body where it lay, no longer breathing and with a small pool of blood beneath him. She stared at the body for a moment, then at the gun lying just beyond it on the floor, then at the door. She seemed to be taking stock of the situation in order to decide. "Now... we have to leave. You heard him, he said he's got support." she said, with a growing look of determination in her eyes. Danny liked seeing this, it meant his mom was feeling better, becoming her normal self again. "Are we going back home?" Danny asked excitedly. "No, Danny, I'm sorry. We can't go home." Danny's face fell. "Why not?" "Because Johann said he wasn't alone. We don't want anyone else coming after us, do we? No, we have to disappear again. We're moving to Canada this time." "Do you really think someone else will come after us?" "I don't know, Danny. But we can't assume there isn't someone out there. And even if there isn't, we have to make sure we don't get in trouble for killing him." "But what about my school, your job, our stuff?" "We'll go home for one day, just one. After that... I've got a plan. Are you ready for an adventure?" Her eyes still had that determined look. "Mom... Are we going to be in danger again?" "I don't know, Danny. But I'll do everything to keep you safe, I promise." A hint of a smile came to her lips. "I know, Mom. And I'll keep you safe too." She kissed his forehead and said, "So is that a yes?" Danny answered, "Let's do this" Angela smiled widely this time, still looking determined. "First, we need to hide the body. Let's just dump it into the lake when we leave. But before that we have to clean up the mess. Then, we'll need to pack all the remaining food in the pantry and all the things we brought here with us. We can't leave any trace behind. Danny... I need you to follow my instructions quickly and not ask any questions until we're on our way. OK?" Danny nodded. They went through Johann's pockets and found some papers related to his attempts to track them down, a wallet with a hundred or so dollars in change, a small walkie-talkie, a set of keys and his FBI ID. They kept the money, read and burned the papers, took the battery out of the walkie-talkie and left the rest in his pockets. Then Danny packed the remaining cans into an old duffel bag they'd found in a closet while Angela took the gun and went out on a recon mission, to make sure there wasn't anyone else and to bring the cars (their getaway car and Johann's car, they'd agreed) up close to the door of the building. An hour after that, they were ready. They first brought the bags to their getaway car, and loaded them in. Then they brought Johann's body to his car, and sat him in the passenger seat. Together, they drove the car right up to the lake shore, to a nearby place where the embankment was a bit steeper. Angela stopped the car, left the key in the ignition, and put the handbrake on. Taking the gun out, she took one shot through the windshield. She got out and with Danny's help moved Johann's body to the driver's seat. Then, going out to stand in front of the car, she took careful aim with the gun and fired a single shot through the windshield at Johann's body. She came back to the car, leaned carefully over the passenger seat and released the handbrake. Then she got out, closed the door, and went to the back of the car. "Help me push it in" she told Danny. Together, they pushed until the car started rolling down toward the lake. Then Angela took Danny by the shoulder and guided him back to the old hotel. Once back in the basement, they finished cleaning everything up and loading the other car. Then Angela told Danny to stay in the car while she ducked back in the building for a couple of minutes. When she came back out, there was no sign that she had picked anything else up. She got into the car and they drove off. "That'll burn the evidence away." she said. Sure enough, when Danny turned to look back at their makeshift home of the past few months, he saw smoke coming out of the windows. He was both impressed and terrified at what had happened, at what they'd done, at what he'd done. Now that he was fully able to take stock of the situation and his feelings, he was suddenly overwhelmed. Fear, awe, confusion, excitement, and concern were all vying for his attention. He was also, for the first time since they'd first left the hotel, able to enjoy the fact that they were back outside in the sunlight. After a little while, though, when both of them seemed to have calmed down a bit, the confusion took over and he started asking questions. He asked why they'd done all those things before leaving, why she'd set fire to the old hotel, why it was so important to destroy evidence, and after a while, "Mom... so what will we do now?" "Now, Danny, we start a new life. We have to. We pretend to die and disappear, and go live as new people elsewhere." "Like we did when we came to LA?" "Yes, Danny, exactly like that." "And how do we do that?" "You remember your sailing lessons, I hope?" "Yeah, of course I do!" He was beaming. The sailing lessons Angela had signed him up for had been complete bliss for Danny. The fact of using nature's forces to bring him where he wanted, that sense of control over one of the most unpredictable and powerful forces out there on Earth, the feeling of moving smoothly over the water with the breeze on his face... "But... what does that have to do with anything?" "You'll see." "Mom! I hate it when you do that!" "I know, and I'm sorry. But we can't risk anyone - ANYone - finding out about the plan." "Fine..." They drove back into LA, and after a few strange detours that she told him were to try to spot any tails, right to their street. But Angela parked several meters away from their house. They got out and made their way to the house. Before entering, she looked around the doorway for things Danny couldn't see. It wasn't until he'd caught his foot on a piece of fishing line that he realized she'd put things there to see if anyone had gone in. Seemingly satisfied, she then guided Danny around to the back door of the house instead. There too, she spent a minute or so examining the door area for signs of entry. Then she opened the door and led Danny in. Without a word, she signaled to him to stay there, inside but just by the now closed door, for five minutes, while she checked the rest of the house. After a while she came back, and said, "The coast is clear. No bugs, no thugs. Now, I want you to pack for real this time. Take anything you can bring and use on a boat. Be ready in an hour." An hour later, Danny was ready. Angela led him out the back door again, but this time they jumped the low back fence into the park behind the house. Following the park path around the neighbor's house, they emerged back on the street between two of the neighboring houses, and reached the car without any trouble. They loaded the new luggage in the trunk and took off. Angela drove a couple of hours. Danny recognized the road down to San Diego. Two hours later they reached Shelter Island harbor. Angela parked the car right next to the gate to the docks. They took some of the luggage and walked right onto the docks and to a plain white sailboat called "Maiden". The boat was a 30-foot sloop with a Zodiac dinghy lying upside down on the foredeck, white with a narrow blue stripe on either side ending in an arrowhead about 30cm from the front. Inside, it looked a little cramped but nevertheless comfortable. There was one cabin up front and another behind the galley. On deck, the equipment was brand-new and ready to serve. Three trips later they'd moved everything to the boat. Before leaving the car on the last trip, Danny saw Angela give the car keys and a hundred dollars to a beggar sitting nearby and tell him to drive the car as far away as he could, and make him swear never to tell anyone about this. By the time she came back to Danny it seemed like she'd threatened him, because he was looking terrified at her back. Once on the boat, they prepared to go. Danny didn't know this boat, and asked his mother about it. Angela said she'd tell him everything once they were offshore. Within half an hour the boat was ready to leave. Angela turned on the engine and Danny went on the docks to release the docklines. Then he climbed aboard, holding the last one in hand. Angela backed the boat out of the slip and into the channel, then put the engine in forward again. They sailed out of San Diego Bay under full power even though there was a nice steady 15-knot wind and beautiful weather. Half an hour later they passed Dana Point and were in the Pacific Ocean. She kept the boat oriented dead west for several hours, on autopilot, but watching the horizon constantly. Only after that, when they were already 40 or so nautical miles offshore, was she able to calm down. She and Danny raised the sails, then she killed the engine and they settled into a steady beam reach at about 8 knots. Then she sat down and explained to Danny that they were sailing to Canada, where they were going to start new lives as Canadian citizens. The house in LA had been rigged to burn 24 hours after their departure. This boat was one she had owned for years, with nobody knowing about it. They were to use the passports and identities that she had prepared for them. She showed him the very passports he had seen while looking in her closet all those months ago. While offshore they were going to "rechristen" the boat according to an existing registration in British Columbia. And... they were going to fake their deaths again. This was all part of contingency plans she had worked out years before. Shortly before sunset, Angela and Danny took the sails down and set the boat to a slow drift. Angela put the dinghy out to sea, still attached to the boat, and pulled it to the side of the hull. She fingered the name of the boat for a few seconds, then tore it off, revealing an entirely different name underneath: "Windbreaker". She then got back aboard, and with a spare halyard put the dinghy back on the deck where it had been. Then she turned the engine on again, put it on full and put the autopilot on. After a few minutes she came out of the cabin with several very official-looking papers, which she set fire to before throwing the remains to leeward into the sea. "I'm destroying any records of registration of this boat in the US." she told Danny. "This boat is now called Windbreaker, and it's registered in Vancouver. And I have the paperwork to prove it." She also brought something out of the cabin. It looked like a walkie-talkie of sorts, but bright yellow and with no speaker. She tied it to something with wires and set it afloat. "This is a decoy for emergency services. I'll keep track of its position, then report a distressed Maiden at its location, and as soon as someone comes in from less than half an hour away, I'll set off this little explosive charge to make sure the whole thing sinks so noone finds it. As far as the authorities and anyone else is concerned, we'll have sunk with the boat before anyone arrives to rescue us." Danny marveled at how thorough the plan was. There was still something missing, however: she'd said they were going to fake their deaths. When was that going to happen? The answer came in the middle of the night. Danny hadn't been able to sleep: the events of the last 24 hours had shaken him badly. He'd known terror, excitement, concern, sorrow and confusion. It wasn't over, but he knew he'd have to put up with it until they were settled in Canada. He left his cabin and found his mother on the deck, fiddling with something. The engine had been turned off and the sails were out. "Oh hi Danny. Couldn't sleep? Don't blame you... This whole thing must have shaken you pretty badly." "What are you doing, Mom?" In the light of the full moon, he saw she had a smile on her face. "I'm faking our deaths. This is the fun part!" He wasn't sure whether she really thought it was fun or she was trying to cheer him up. "Mayday, mayday, mayday. This is Maiden, we're at three-one degrees, two-four minutes, four-niner seconds north and one-two-two degrees, four-five minutes, one-two seconds west, we've hit something and we're sinking. Mayday, mayday, mayday..." She repeated the message, listening for a few seconds between each iteration. She was reading the position off a receiver she had in her hand. After a few seconds there was a reply. "Maiden, this is US Coast Guard San Diego. We are dispatching a helicopter to help you. Do you need medical crew as well?" "Coast Guard San Diego, affirmative, repeat, affirmative. We are sinking quickly, what is your ETA?" "Maiden, this is Coast Guard San Diego. The team's ETA is an hour. We've dispatched helicopters to your location. Can you please tell us how many people are affected?" "Coast Guard San Diego, we are Julia Beck, age 45, and Danny Beck, age 12, both of Los Angeles. Our life raft didn't deploy properly and is leaking, we are really in trouble, could another ship nearby help us?" "Maiden, Coast Guard San Diego, we'll put out a call. Suggest you do the same on VHF." "Thank you, Coast Guard San Diego." She placed more calls to "All ships in the area", but didn't get any reply. She didn't look worried about it. No doubt she'd expected it and had even planned it. She set a timer for forty-five minutes and settled down to wait. Every now and then she put out another call to "All ships in the area" or answered a question from the Coast Guard. The way she put it, the situation was getting more and more desperate. She was so convincing that Danny could picture them in a sinking life raft, hanging on for dear life and trying to stay afloat. When the timer went off with a light buzz, Angela sent out a last message: "Coast Guard San Diego, our life raft has sunk beneath us, we are floating in open water and don't know how long we can stand it." "Maiden, this is Coast Guard San Diego. We've located your EPIRB, our choppers are following it, but they're still 15 minutes out. Can you hold on until then?" Angela smiled at this news. But she knew she couldn't blow the package immediately. "Coast Guard, we don't know. My son is almost hypothermic and my leg is inj--" She took another radio and held it close to the first to create an interference effect, then stopped radio communications. A minute later, she hit the button on a detonator. The numbers on the receiver disappeared. Then, smiling, she turned all of those devices off and threw the receiver into the sea. She went to the engine, turned it on and pushed it to the maximum speed. "It's just until morning, then we'll be under sail again" *** THIRTY YEARS LATER *** Jérémie Blondel had led a very successful life. After his adventures as a teenager, he'd gone on to finish his studies in 20th-century history, focusing on espionage and covert operations. His mother's story, told in an abandoned hotel's basement so many years ago, had sparked his interest in this field, but not enough for him to get involved in it himself. He had started a travel agency with some friends and was doing well. He and his mother had lived quietly, with no other trouble, for three decades. His mother Joanne Claude was now settling into a comfortable semi-retirement from her job as a professor of Cold War History and still working occasionally as a consultant for CSIS. She was old now, almost bed-ridden with rheumatisms and arthritis, but her memory was still razor-sharp, as it had always been. Jérémie opened the door with his spare key and walked to the living room. On the way he saw not a single family picture, not a single reminder that he'd been her son. He'd grown up that way, and it was normal for him. But with everything he'd found out about his mom since that day thirty years ago, he wasn't surprised. He supposed it came with the territory when you work in that area. Reaching the living room, he saw his mother sitting on the sofa and said, "Hi Mom, how are you today?" "Same old, same old. How about you? Is the family OK?" she said, wincing as she pushed herself up to kiss her son. "Yes, they're fine! They couldn't come today because Julia is at her friend's place for the week-end and Jenny is watching little Joe's recital. He's so talented! I'm getting him a piano for his next birthday." Angela smiled, the same smile after decades. "Hans... I'm really happy for you, and so proud." They kept chatting, catching up on the last week's news on both sides. Angela had completed another report for CSIS, working from her home. She still liked to follow what was going on in that sector, even though she herself had never worked in covert operations again. Somehow there was something different today. Danny detected a kind of sadness and a determination in his mother's voice. It seemed like something had happened that scared her. "Mom, what aren't you telling me?" Angela sighed and took something from beside the bed. It was another rope, tied in a noose. "My nurse found this on my doormat a few days ago." Danny sat there, stunned. "But... who could possibly... Dad's dead!" "I know, Danny. I don't know who it is. Someone else from our days in the Stasi, I imagine." "Aren't you going to do anything to protect yourself?" "I'm already doing plenty. I have a gun here in my nightstand, and I'm keeping an eye on the nurse. I don't want another mole in my surroundings." "Aren't... Aren't you afraid?" "Of them? No. Not any more. I survived them twice, and had a good life. You've grown up and become successful in your business, raising a nice family yourself. I've done what I wanted to do. I'm not afraid to die. And the pain... well, I'm not really living any more anyway if I'm spending most of my days in bed. I'm ready to fight to the end to protect you if they do come for me. I just thought you should know." Danny said, "But we have to do something! We have..." She cut him off mid word. "No, Danny. This ends here. I'm too old to fight much, and definitely too old to run again. You're a grown man and can get along fine without me. Believe me, I've thought it through. If I die this time, I'll consider it mission accomplished." Maybe it was the age, maybe it was her growing pessimism, but somehow Danny understood her way of thinking. He didn't like it, but he understood it. He was determined to help her, though. "We've got to do something! I've got to help you!" "NO, Danny." Her vehemence surprised him. "I really appreciate it, but I don't want you involved in this any more. I don't want you to be in danger too." Danny tried to protest some more, but his mother said firmly, "That's my final decision, Danny. I'm determined to do this." Then, smiling and reaching out to take his hand, she said, "Danny... I'm really proud of you, I've always been proud of you. Especially when we had to flee LA. You handled that so well. And I'm really proud of how your own kids are." "Thanks, Mom." Suddenly he realized he had tears in his eyes. He hadn't cried at all in thirty years, but now it looked like that streak was over. "Mein Sohn" she said, suddenly switching to German, "ich bin sehr stolz auf dich, sehr stolz. Und ich wünsche euch alles Gute. I'm feeling tired, can you please help me to my bed?" Danny helped her up and held her arm as she walked slowly to bed. He lay her in it. She took a tablet out of the top drawer in the bedside table, and put it in a glass of water that had already been sitting there. "Thanks, Danny. I'll see you soon." On that note, Danny left his mom's apartment. He wouldn't take any measures himself for her protection, as per her request. But he would check up on her more often. Meanwhile, Angela was still holding her glass of water between her forefinger and thumb. Once Danny had left, she opened the other three fingers of her hand and dropped the five tablets hidden there into the glass. She shook the glass gently until all the tablets had dissolved, then drank it all in one go. Within minutes, she fell asleep, smiling back at a full and well-lived life, and never woke up again. THE END.

[tumbleweedshorts]

Jessie, Joel and I

I guess my mission has always been suicidal anyway, by its very nature. Jessie has always been paranoid and worried. Ever since she was a child and was chased by that crazed dog in the street outside her school. There was no real risk to her then, but that idiot Joel kept telling her how dangerous and mean dogs were, and how dangerous and mean their owners were as well because they let the dogs run free.

Later on, Jessie never made any true friends. Sure, she hung out a bit with some of her classmates, but only when forced to. Except for me. Somehow she felt comfortable around me. She kept saying I understood her, I was good to her, I was her best friend.

Halfway into middle school Jessie tried to open up, on my advice, and attended a party with some of her friends. That's where one of the guys started making inappropriate moves on her and she'd had to fight to get free. I saw her run back home that night, in hysterical tears, burying herself under her blankets, with the full intention never to get out of there again.

This set off a vicious cycle of depression, anxiety, and even more paranoia. She turned goth and started thinking very dark thoughts. She became a true loner, only trusting me and listening to me. I would visit her every evening. But every evening I saw traces of Joel too. He was still there, still driving a wedge between her and society.

A few times I saw her parents try to talk to her, but she was hardly responsive. They tried to send her to the psychiatrist, but it never worked for her. She would always come back on the edge of tears. From what she told me, the shrinks would always ask her personal questions and she was afraid to answer because Joel had told her they were going to use the information against her.

So all through the rest of middle and high school, she stayed in that vicious circle and was unable to move on. I tried encouraging her to get help too. One day she suddenly yelled at me... At ME! And kicked me out of her house.

I didn't see her for several weeks then. By the time we reunited - when she called me to a bar, having drunk a dozen shots of vodka - she had gotten a lot worse. She started telling me there was only one thing to do: she had to end it all. there was a high bridge not far, she was going to jump off of it into the river and finally have peace. I was alarmed to hear that. I don't have the strength to pull her back or prevent her from doing it.

Thankfully, before she put her words into action, she passed out right there on the table. The barman called the ambulance and she was taken to the hospital. It was there that one doctor recognized the wider symptoms. Once she was over the vodka, he decided to keep her in the psych ward for a few more days, to watch over her. He gave her a couple of meds during this time. She improved noticeably, and once I even saw a half smile when he paid her a compliment.

I'd noticed something else too: Joel seemed to have suddenly disappeared. Then I heard the doctor tell her kindly that she really needed to get help and be serious about it if she wanted to be better. Somehow, it seems, he managed where so many others had failed. Perhaps it was the advice instead of the order, perhaps it was something soothing in his deep, calm voice, or perhaps it was just the drugs. Whatever it was, the very day after she left the hospital, she went of her own free will to see a shrink, and stayed with it.

I was ecstatic. Things finally seemed to be looking up. So was I, apparently, because it was only a few days later that I noticed my feet were getting transparent and disappearing. A few more days and the knees and forelegs were gone too.

Then Jessie met Dan, and she took to him as she had never done before with any guy. Pretty soon they were going out, and by then all that was left of me were my heart and my head. I was fading away because she needed me less and less. Just as Joel had faded away during those days in the hospital.

Last week-end, she graduated from college, and the last thing my eyes ever saw was her, holding her diploma in hand and kissing Dan. In a way, as I said before, I always knew mine was a suicide mission. But I don't mind, that's the point. It's just too bad I won't see her long enough in her truly happy state.

Just now I heard a question from Dan that I'm sure will be the last thing I ever hear. And I felt a twinge in what's left of my heart that surely means my time has come. Farewell, Jessie, I'm really happy for you, and wish you all the best. I wish I could tell you myself, but you no longer need my voice and it's gone. And if you ever need me again, know that I will be ready to join you.

Inspiration: The prompt for this story was “After years of gentle persuasion, your best friend since childhood finally agrees to seek professional help for serious mental problems. Much to your dismay, as she begins to improve you realize that YOU are her imaginary friend.

[tumbleweedshorts]

Family Secrets (part 5/6)

Inspiration: This is the 5th part of a larger story I started a couple of weeks ago, working from a prompt I saw on Facebook. You can find part 1 here, part 2 here, part 3 here and part 4 here.

Agent Whittaker - Johann - said, in German, "No, Brigit. I'm not going to hurt you. Not yet. I have to admit, even after years out of this line of work, it has been fun to get back to my old tricks and see you squirm. Why stop the fun now?"

Danny was still struggling to come to grips with the story Angela - his mom, she was still his mom, she'd said - had told him, and make all the necessary connections. As it was, however, he was too shocked and scared to do more than just sit there and watch.

"I know you double-crossed me back in New York. I suspected that, and managed to infiltrate the Bureau and find your file. You did a good job, faking your death with them and the Agency, and hid your tracks well. But that's not all I found. I also read that you'd been double-crossing me at least since the Gatow operation. You know I don't like betrayal. And you know what I do to people who betray me? You do, don't you?"

Danny saw his mom's face go white. She suddenly started trembling violently. Then she apparently remembered she still had the gun in her hand. She aimed it at Johann, but didn't shoot.

"Brigit" the man continued. "You are so naive. Do you honestly think I am working alone? Do you really think that killing me will save you?"

Angela was unable to speak, and just kept holding the gun in front of her, aiming at the man.

"You can't do it. You were never able to shoot properly. And if you kill me, what will happen to Danny?"

Suddenly Angela let out a scream of anguish. Tears came to her eyes, but she kept staring at Johann.

In his hiding place, Danny realized things were taking a turn for the worse. He wondered if he should do something. But his mom had a gun, and this man - his dad - was clearly dangerous and angry. /And/, Danny thought to himself, /he is my dad. I've been wanting to meet him for years./

There was another loud bang. Angela had apparently taken a shot at Johann. He rocked back, and a split second later was wincing and holding his arm. The bullet had apparently grazed him. When he pulled his hand away from the wound, Danny could see a messy red streak on the injured arm.

Then things escalated quickly. Johann rushed toward Angela, knocking the gun violently out of her hand and grabbing for her neck. She put up a good fight, landing several punches, but within minutes he overpowered her. He had her on the floor, lying on her stomach, and was holding her hands behind her. Holding her hands with one hand, he used the other to pull a length of rope from his coat pocket.

Once done, he sat her on the sofa and stood back. His lip and brow were bleeding, and his shirt sleeve was torn and bloody where the bullet had grazed him. Angela's face seemed to be intact, but Danny could tell she was in a lot of pain. She was sobbing hysterically.

Danny stood there, in a quandary. Should he do something? The gun had flown across the room and landed only a few feet away from him. Could he do that? Did he dare? It was his mother against his father. He'd never known his father, and now that he'd seen him and realized the truth, he had to make a life and death decision.

And he loved his mother. He wanted to take care of her. He realized, from the story Angela had told him, that once Johann was done with her he would come after Danny. The choice seemed obvious. Yet still Danny stalled.

Suddenly he made up his mind. He had to get the gun away from Johann. But could he do it? He was terrified of attracting Johann's attention. He watched for a couple more minutes. Johann was apparently busy tying Angela's feet together now, and taking his time with it.

Hoping his mother's sobbing would cover any noise he might make, he quietly snuck out of his hiding place and picked up the gun before going back to the pantry. Now what? Could he really take action? Could he shoot this man? /He's my father/, the thought came back. /But some father! Look what he's up to! Maybe Mom's right, I shouldn't get to know him/.

He stayed there, gun in hand, still wondering what to do and whether he could even do anything. Then he saw Johann take out a knife. Angela started screaming again, and pleading desperately. Now was the time. But could he really do it?

Danny had never shot a real gun before. Sure, he'd had a BB gun before, and had spent hours in the back yard shooting at cardboard targets fixed to the fence. He'd gotten really good at it too, always beating Joe.

But this was different. A real gun, with real bullets and real consequences. He made his decision. He had to do something, and staying hidden in the pantry wasn't going to help him. He had to get out.

He snuck out of the pantry again, trying to get close as quietly as possible, thankful for his mom's screams. He thought he'd gotten away with it, but...

Without turning around, Johann said, "Ahhh... Hans. Or is it Danny now? Long time, no see! You look so much like your mother"

Johann must have seen his reflection in the knife. Danny, trembling madly, held the gun out in front of him with both hands. He took a few steps back. He couldn't say anything.

Johann turned to face Danny. "Yes, you look so much like your mother." He started walking toward Danny, a mad glint in his eyes. "And now you will help me. You will help me teach your mother a lesson."

The gun was shaking more than ever in Danny's hands. He couldn't do it.

"Yes, I will teach your mother a lesson about betrayal and double-crossing she won't soon forget. She will know what it is like to lose everything she holds most sacred."

Danny suddenly realized Johann was indeed planning to kill him. He had to do something. He had to shoot. But his hands were shaking too much. Suddenly he saw his mother in the background.

He made his decision. He was going to protect her, and the law be damned. Suddenly he felt his fear leak away, replaced with a strange new determinaion. It was now or never, and if he failed, there wasn't going to be much he could do anyway.

Suddenly he felt oddly calm. His hands were still. Arms stretched out, he aimed the gun right at Johann's chest. Johann was still ten feet away. Danny closed his eyes and squeezed the trigger.

The bang was deafening and the recoil tore the gun from his hands. Danny's ears were hurting like he hadn't felt since that ear infection two years earlier. Distracted by the pain, he put his hands up to his ears to try to stop the ringing. A second later he remembered the urgency of the situation. Had he succeeded? Were they still in danger?

Still holding his ears, he looked back at Johann. His father was lying on the floor, twitching slightly, his breath gurgling. Danny approached him cautiously, staying a few feet away.

There was a small, neat hole in Johann's chest where the bullet had hit him. A dark bloodstain was spreading from the hole in his shirt. Johann's face was losing color fast, and he was gurgling and coughing up blood. Danny saw the drops on his face where they contrasted wildly with the whiteness of his skin.

The pain in his ears forgotten for the moment, Danny stood back and took stock. He had done it. He wasn't sure how he felt about it. But now wasn't the time for that. A small noise in the back of his mind brought him back to reality. /Mom/, he thought.

He ran to Angela and untied her. She grabbed him and hugged him, sobbing gratefully. Danny was crying too. After a few minutes, he calmed down enough to say, "Mom... are you OK?"

It took a few more seconds for Angela to calm down enough to answer. "Yeah, Danny, I'm OK. Thank you." She kissed him on the forehead and repeated, "Thank you!" before bursting into tears again.

It took a few more minutes for them to calm down again. Then Danny said, "So... what now?"

Continued in part 6

[tumbleweedshorts]

The Face

The prompt for this story was simply “I need a new face”

Hands caked with clay, I stand back to admire my work. Wait... Still just a touch left to correct... Yes, that's it... Just a little more work with the spatula, just that one little feature to smooth out... theeeeere... It's perfect.

I sit there, admiring it, for several minutes. Then I realize I need to see it in all possible lighting conditions to make sure it's really perfect. Although, who am I kidding? I know it's perfect, I just want to see it in all those different lights just to feel awesome about it.

Thus, for hours I move the desk lamp all around, looking at my creation, admiring it, the delicate shapes, the fine-tuned curves, the smooth outlines, every detail, perfect to the last. Then I rush off to the closet, where I know I keep a flashlight, and add the second beam to the fray to take in even more exquisite detail and see ever more angles.

It's beautiful, splendid, gorgeous. The very notion of perfection. And the best part? This face won't age, ever. Once I take it out of the kiln and glaze it, it will remain the same, beautiful and perfect, forever.

Delicately, I pick up the whole setup and start carrying it to the table on the balcony where it will air out for a few hours before being put in the kiln. As I walk toward the balcony I pass the full-length mirror on the back of my studio door. I see my own scarred reflection looking back at me. And right beside it, my perfect, beautiful creation, in this light almost looking scornful and disdainful.

I know, I know, that accident was my fault. All my fault. Whoa, there I am talking to the clay face. Kind of funny. I leave the studio and go to the balcony, but that reflection I just saw keeps nagging at me.

A question pops into my head as, clearly, I dwell on the accident. Why did you have to do it? Hell if I know. It just seemed like fun at the time. But isn't that what teenagers do, experiment with the craziest things just for the hell of it? You should have known this would hurt you. Why, because I was putting a golf ball-sized lump of pure sodium into a toilet? Yeah, I guess you're right. I mean, you WERE top of the class in chemistry, were you not? Well that's the thing, I was sure I'd taken all the right precautions. Clearly not, or your face wouldn't look like this...

Dimly, during this mental conversation, I start realizing that the questions aren't addressed BY me, but TO me. It's as if someone else is talking to me. But who? I reach the door of the balcony, and stop to open it. As I reach for the handle I catch a glimpse of the face. It now looks distinctly reproachful. Must be a trick of the light. Putting the conversation out of my mind, I walk out onto the balcony and set the face on the table.

Wait.

What?

Wait.

I look around, there's definitely nobody there to talk to me, but still I hear a voice. Not with my ears, though, with my mind. Slowly I look back at my creation.

What is it, face?

You can't just leave me here. What will I become without you?

I'm just letting you breathe a bit before putting you in the kiln.

My use of the word 'breathe' suddenly sounds strange. I'd always used it, but now that this face seems to be taking on a certain human personality, it feels funny.

Well I don't deny that I enjoy the fresh air, but I'm afraid I can't follow through with this plan. You see, I need you. And you need me.

What? Of course I need you. I'm going to fire you, glaze you and sell you. That's my job. That's how I make my money.

This is stupid. I'm somehow arguing with a clay sculpture.

No, that's not what I mean. I need you to wear me. And from the scars on your face, I daresay you need a new face too.

Oh crap. The face is right. I've fantasized about corrective surgery for years, ever since high school and that dumb accident. But I've never been able to afford it. This clay work is going pretty well, a few more months of this and I'll be able to pay for the surgery.

I walk back to the face, confused.

But why would YOU need ME to wear you?

Beautiful faces all deserve to be worn.

What? Is that all you have to answer?

Yes.

I make to leave, but...

Wait.

What now?

You've been making clay sculptures for years now. You've made many a person, animal, etc.

Agreed, what's your point?

Have you ever spent this much time and energy on a single work, poured so much of your soul into it, as when you made me?

Uhhh...

I'm not sure where the face is going with this.

Once I was finished, you admired me for hours in different lighting conditions. Doesn't that tell you something?

Uhh, yeah, I... I guess...

I still don't see where he's going.

I am your most beautiful work ever, you know it, you've been thinking it all that time, you even pulled out a second light just to combine it with the first and see me in more different settings.

Uh-huh...

Still don't get it? OK, I'll cut to the chase. You've poured so much of your soul into me now that we are one and the same. I represent your dream of having a new face, and part of your personality is inside me now. That is how I am talking to you. We are one. That is why we need each other. I need the rest of your personality, and you need a new face. You must wear me.

Suddenly I throw back my head and burst out laughing. The whole idea seems ridiculous in the extreme.

You still don't believe me, I see... Fine, leave me out here to dry. But you'll see.

I stop laughing and make to leave.

See you soon!

'Bye.

I go back into the kitchen to fix up some pasta with bolognaise. Work always takes it out of me, and there's nothing like a good snack to get me back on track.

From where I sit eating my pasta, I have a view of the face, where it's sitting on the balcony table. It's looking at me reproachfully again. No, that's just my imagination. Yet something about it bothers me. Whoops, I've aimed wrong and some sauce got onto my chin. I pick up my napkin and wipe it, but there's nothing on the napkin. Strange. I must have imagined it. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I see the face. It's got a spot of red on its chin. No, that's not possible. I have to clean it up. It needs to stay perfect if I want to sell it. I reach the balcony in a hurry.

Now do you believe me?

Oh damn, it's talking to me again. I'll just ignore it. Instead, I reach for a cloth and dampen it at the faucet in the corner, to wipe off whatever that red stuff is.

Hey, I'm talking to you.

Exasperated, I stare back at it.

What?

I said, now do you believe me?

What are you tal... I'm now looking at the red spot on the clay... It's bolognaise sauce from my pasta, sitting right where I'd thought I'd inadvertently put it on my own chin. I feel my chin. Nothing there. I wipe the sauce off the clay, and feel my chin again. It's moist. What the...?

I ask you again, NOW do you believe me?

I must be dreaming... What the hell is this? I rush back into the kitchen, grab my plate of pasta and set it on the other side of the table where I won't see the face. I finish eating, then wash the dishes in a hurry and go to bed. That's the only explanation I can see. I must be delirious or something. This can't be happening. I figure I'll just sleep on it, and maybe in the morning everything will be back to normal, that face will have learned to shut up and I'll be able to carry on with my life.

After a restful night, I wake up. My face is itching. What's up? I go to the mirror. My face is looking dry. I run my fingers over my cheek and dust comes away. I scratch at one of the itches, and somehow remove a chip. A chip of skin! I rush into the bathroom to soak my face, trying to solve this. Somehow it works almost immediately. I rub in moisturizing lotion, and the itching is gone.

I walk out to the balcony to check on the face. I need to see if it's ready for the kiln yet.

Damn it, it's still too moist. I touch it briefly to see if it's almost dry. An eerie sensation makes me jump. I've just felt a finger touching my own cheek just where I touched the face! Okay, calm down, there must be an explanation for this. Whatever it was that happened yesterday must have really frayed my nerves.

Anyway, the face is clearly not ready for the kiln yet, it's still way too moist. Yet there's something more, something weird... When I touched it just now, my finger came away... a bit greasy. Like the lotion I'd just put onto my own face. Oh, that must be it. I didn't clean my hands properly. Anyway, finger or not, lotion or not, the face isn't ready to be fired yet. I'll just leave it out a few more hours.

I leave home then, to do a few chores. I go to the supermarket, then to the arts store to fill up on supplies. Then I come home and start working on another sculpture. After a while I start to feel a cold breeze on my face. I look around. Funny, the windows are all closed, and there are no drafts. This is an old attic, maybe there's a leak somewhere in the roof. I go around the room, inspecting the roof as I already do every week anyway. Not a sign of a leak or hole or anything.

I go to the kitchen to make a cup of hot chocolate. The breeze seems to follow me, persistently cooling my left cheek. As I wait for the milk to warm up in the microwave, I catch sight again of the face on the balcony table. Behind it, the plants at the edge of the balcony are swaying toward my left... And, I realize suddenly, the wind moving them is blowing right onto the left cheek of the clay face. This won't do. It'll dry the face irregularly. I go out to turn the sculpture so that the breeze is now blowing behind it.

I get back in and drink my hot chocolate. Then, warmed up and refreshed, I get back to my work. It's taking shape pretty nicely, even though I do say so myself. I keep at it for hours. Before I know it, it's well past midnight. My nose is itching pretty horribly again. I reach up to scratch it. It feels like ice. This doesn't make sense. I go look in the mirror. I sniff back the beginning of a runny nose I shouldn't be having. In the mirror I see my skin, dry again. Whoa, I've never had chronic dry skin before. I head to the bathroom for more lotion. On the way I pass through the kitchen. Suddenly a violent sneeze comes up. As I wipe away the snot in a kleenex, I glance out at the balcony and do a double take. The face's nose has just twitched, as if someone were wiping it clean.

All thought of lotion forgotten, I go out to the balcony again. The face is no longer its beautiful self, it's looking tired and cold. And it's frowning. Wait, what?

See, I'm catching a cold. You're catching a cold. I told you you shouldn't have put me out here. You have to wear me. Your soul is feeling everything I'm feeling. We are one, I tell you. But now we're sick, and it's all your fault. You have to wear me. I need you to wear me. And yes, you need to wear me too. You've had enough of people looking strangely at your scarred face. I know, because I am in your mind, I am part of you. Your soul is the one speaking to you through me. Oh, and that dry skin you keep getting? It's because you keep leaving me out here to dry. But every time you moisturize again, it restores me and delays the firing.

But then, what... how... how am I supposed to wear you?

Like a mask, of course, you dummy! Peel me off of here, and put me on like a mask. I will then finally merge with you and BE your new face. Your new, beautiful, perfect face. Nobody will ever again comment on the unfortunate result of your high-school stupidity. Now isn't that tempting?

Now that I'm confronted with all this evidence, it seems maybe he isn't messing with me (look at me personifying the face now). I bring the face back into the studio, and the moment we’re indoors I feel a warmth on my own face. This seems to settle the last remaining doubts in my mind. I guess it's true. I'm feeling what it's feeling. We are one.

Once in the studio, I moisturize the clay again to make it look neat and new. If I'm going to be wearing this face, I might as well make sure it looks as perfect as it was when I finished it. As I do this, my own skin stops itching and feels ever better and warmer, as I now knew it would.

Hands caked with clay, I stand back to admire my touch-ups. I smile at the face, and it smiles back. Then I take the knife and delicately peel the face off the rest of the bust. It's hard work and I'm always worried I might tear it or destroy it. But suddenly it's feeling warm and... it's not clay any more. It's feeling just like actual skin! Actual clean, neat, unscarred skin! My hand slips a bit as I take it off, and for a horrible second I panic at the thought that I might have just ripped it. But the skin is elastic in a way that clay never was, and the face remains whole.

I then position it in front of me, and slowly put it on. It feels strange at first, like I'm wearing a wetsuit on my face. Then the feeling suddenly disappears. I feel around my head to inspect the result. I look for the edge of the clay face in order to tug at it and adjust it if necessary, but I can't find it. The face has indeed merged with me. I rush to the mirror to look at myself. There I am. Well, there's the face, so seamlessly joined to my body that there's no trace of it ever having been separate or even, for that matter, ever having been made of clay. I touch my cheek, and feel my fingers there. I smile, and the face smiles back at me.

I no longer need a new face. I have one, the most beautiful one ever.

[tumbleweedshorts]

Family Secrets (part 4/6)

Inspiration: This is part 4 of a story I started writing based on a prompt found on Facebook. If you missed the first three, you can find Part 1 here, Part 2 here and Part 3 here

"The... the truth about what?" Danny thought he knew, however. It had to do with the mess they were in, with what he'd stumbled upon. Suddenly he didn't want to know. Given everything that had happened, he was scared to find out, and he was sure he wouldn't like it. But he couldn't not know. He was too curious. And maybe finally he would understand.

His mother hesitated for another minute, seemingly on the brink of tears again. She took several deep breaths and finally settled down. Then, in a weak and subdued voice, she began:

"OK. I guess I'd better start from the beginning. But before I do, I need to make one thing clear. I'm telling you this because you need to know. I'd rather not have to tell you, you're too young to understand. But now that it has caught up with us, now that we're both in danger, you need to know. And Danny... I mean it, no one else can know it. NO ONE. I need you to give me your word that you will keep this to yourself."

Danny, scared but still wanting to find out what this was about, immediately nodded. But this wasn't enough for his mother. "I need you to understand this, Danny. You can't tell anyone at all about this. The consequences could be very severe for both of us. Do I have your word?" Danny thought for a few seconds, then nodded again.

"Yes" he said purposefully. His mother took one final deep breath, then apparently regaining a bit of strength, started her story:

"My name... isn't Julia. It's Angela. Angela Schröder. And you... your name is Hans Fischer." She paused again, apparently unsure how to continue. Danny, meanwhile, sat there staring at her in stunned disbelief.

"Your father and I met while we were working for the East German intelligence service, the Stasi. We were both spies. And we were never actually married. We were never even in love. We had you... We had you as part of our assignment, part of our cover. We were under deep cover, posing as a British fighter pilot and his family, living in West Berlin.

"Back in '84, when you were only 2 years old, we were living in Berlin. We'd been tasked with infiltrating the British Air Force base in Gatow. And we were good at that, Johann (I don't even know if that's his real name) had the ear of the top brass in the base and I was gleaning more from the other pilots' wives.

"Then... Then someone reported my parents to the HVA, the East German secret police, because they suspected I might have been turned by the British and using them as a conduit for my information. That was completely false, of course. But they didn't care, they tortured and killed my parents.

"It was shortly after that incident that I did turn to the Brits. I couldn't tell the Stasi, of course. I couldn't even tell Johann. Through the pilots' wives I got in touch with one of the leaders of the base, and started passing information on to him while still working for the Stasi.

"When we were ordered to blow up a hangar in the airbase, I blew the plot immediately. The British let it happen, so as not to compromise me, but replaced the valuable equipment inside with older, outdated stuff. Luckily, nobody ever suspected that the plan had been blown."

Angela paused. Danny was still sitting there, staring at her as if shell-shocked. She got up, went to the sink and poured herself a cup of water. Danny was relieved to see she wasn't jumpy any more. But she did still walk with a bit of a slouch. He didn't like seeing her unhappy like that.

She came back and sat down, then continued her story.

"Shortly after that, Johann was redeployed to New York City, to serve in a joint RAF-USAF task force in a base in that area. I got a job as a professor in university. The Stasi took this chance to plant us there as sleepers. It was a pleasant enough life.

"Then orders came from Berlin. Reagan had just given his speech against the Berlin Wall, and the East German government didn't like that at all. A West German delegation was due to speak in front of the UN on the subject of the wall, and we were to assassinate them.

"One of my students in the university was the son of someone high in the White House, and I confided in him and blew the plan. He tipped his father off, and when Johann and I went to carry out the plan, we found the hotel room empty. The delegation had been moved hours before.

"Johann was furious, of course, and so was the Stasi. His victims had been snatched from him. He immediately suspected me, as only the two of us were in on the plan. He started beating me, threatening me and trying to make me confess. I never did. Then one evening he was drunk out of his mind, and started beating and threatening me again. He said he'd kill you if that's what it took to get me to confess.

"I couldn't let that happen. So when he passed out on the bed, I closed the windows, turned on the gas, took you with me and left the apartment. I went to the nearest FBI office and explained everything. I told them that I was Stasi, that Johann was too, and that what I wanted most of all was to protect you from him and the Stasi. I showed them all the proof they needed.

"They took me in and, for good measure, put us in a witness protection program. They staged a car accident in which you and I were supposed to have died. They moved us to LA and since then we've been Julia and Danny Beck, living in LA with FBI agents living all round us. Mrs. Jones? She's FBI. Mr. Palmer across the street? He's FBI. That new guy next door, Mr. Whittaker? He's FBI.

"Then came the German reunification in 1990. The Stasi was disbanded and most of its agents joined the BND. But as I was considered guilty of sabotage on the Gatow base, they tried to summon me back to Germany to face charges. MI6 and the CIA helped have the charges dropped, and put forward the evidence that I had died anyway.

"But I've never completely trusted the FBI or the CIA. That's why none of the agents was living in the house with us. Just in case we had to flee again, I had a local forger make us false passports, with which we could move elsewhere if need be.

"After four years without news or threats, I started feeling confident that nobody would trace us, and that my past was truly expunged. Until that time when we found the rope on the doormat.

"that noose was a warning that Johann had used several times before before his assassination jobs. Naturally, when I saw it on OUR doorstep, I freaked out. Who else would know this?"

Danny was now afraid, very afraid. "Y... You mean... Dad's out there... and... coming after us?"

Angela burst into tears again, saying, "I don't know, Danny, I don't know! I'm so sorry... so sorry... so sorry..."

Danny hugged her again, tears coming to his eyes again. He'd never imagined anything as horrible as the story he'd just heard. And he didn't know what to make of his feelings about it. But he did know one thing: he loved his mother, and didn't like to see her cry.

He tried to make sense of it all in his mind. The newspaper article. The gun. The birth certificate. The papers and clippings from those days. The ID card he'd just found in the ledger. It was all adding up.

And... his dad. Even with all the scary things his mother had told him, it was still his dad. And Danny wanted to meet his dad, no matter what. But if his father was out to kill him...

"So... what'll we do now?"

Angela finally calmed down and said, "Well we're hiding out here for now. He doesn't know this safe house, normally. But we shouldn't be too confident. That's why I've been so scared."

They both sat there in silence for a long time.

Danny asked, "So... my life, our lives, are just lies?"

"No, no, no!" Angela said quickly, on the brink of tears again. "You are my son and I love you more than anything or anyone else. I know you've got reasons not to believe me any more, but it's true. I'm sorry about all of this. I never wanted you to be involved. I never wanted this to spill over onto your life. You are Danny Beck, you're in middle school in LA, your friend Joe is indeed your friend Joe. Please don't let this story change anything. Everything I've done including lying to you, was to protect you from all of this." This time she did burst into tears again.

Suddenly there was a loud knock at the door. Angela sat bolt upright, picked up the gun and aimed it at the door again.

She whispered to Danny, "Quick, hide in the pantry!" As Danny stood there without moving, she continued, "Please, Danny!" The sincerity and concern in her face convinced Danny. He followed her instructions and went to hide, leaving the door open just a crack so he could see.

"Wh... Who's there?" she yelled at the door, in a shaky voice.

"It's Special agent Whittaker. Julia, you gave us quite a fright!"

Letting out a sigh of relief, she lowered the gun and went to open the door.

The man walked in calmly, then closed and locked the door behind him.

"Well, well, well. It's been a while. Hello, Brigit."

Angela suddenly looked petrified with fear. She screamed, then said, "Johann... Johann, bitte... Bitte, tut uns nicht weh... Please don't hurt us..."

Continued in part 5

[tumbleweedshorts]

Mind Thief

Inspiration: Facebook prompt:

"I think I've lost my mind. Did you take it? I don't know where it is." "Maybe it's in that bag."

I need to find a place to hide this. The cops will soon be on my tail, and I need to hide this. It's not merely a matter of my survival or my freedom, however. It's for the good of the country.

I'm a mind-catcher, you see. I'm hired by various people to capture the minds of others for various purposes. I was trained in this by my uncle. He was a notorious mind-catcher in his day, and took me on as an apprentice after my parents died. It's a delicate job, and one needs to take care not to leave any trace of oneself behind in the subject's head. My uncle always used to say, "Take only the mind, leave only nothing". But after years of painstaking practice, I had proven my mettle.

Ever since I started in this career, I've never thought much about the ethical side of it... It's always been more important to me to make a living than to care about my targets' well-being. And maybe I should have started caring about that sooner. Recent events have made me reconsider this.

What you need to understand is that when someone's mind is captured, they become unable to do much at all. No sense of self left, no reference, no background, no memories, no attachments... I've seen (and, I admit, sometimes enjoyed watching) some of my targets after the fact. My uncle explained a lot of it too.

The result of this on the subject is that the first new memories, the first new experiences, become overinflated in the emptiness of the mind, and as a result become their first new reference, their first new sense of self. For example, if the first thing they hear is a duck quacking, they will associate with that and think they're a duck, and it can take years of other contradicting experiences, years of retraining, for them to realize they are not, in fact, a duck.

It's also possible to inject a mind into someone, but this needs to be done much more carefully, as putting too much mind into one person can cause massive confusion and eventually brain damage. So one needs to first remove just the right amount of mind before injecting a new one.

But it's also not good to inject a mind blindly into an empty head, as this can lead to a complete lack of muscle coordination in the subject. Indeed, muscle commands aren't entirely extracted but they're still present in the extraction, so reintroducing muscle commands can create conflicts.

Anyway, I'm a mind-catcher. Usually I work for private people who need others "eliminated". And I've been very good at this, never leaving a trace and never getting caught.

Until, that is, two years ago when I stumbled into a trap. It was a sting operation by the authorities. They wanted a mind-catcher to work for them. My uncle was long dead, and I'd become the best in the business. However, as they couldn't trace me with any evidence, they set this up to catch me in the act. Since then, they've been threatening to arrest and execute me lest I assist them in their mission.

At first it was easy, and simple. I was to apply my skills to dangerous people: convicted criminals, sentenced serial killers, proven paedophiles, real rapists, and occasionally true traitors, when they were caught. It all seemed fair and aboveboard, and brought in a decent, steady income.

I still take on the odd job privately, because that brings in more money. I'm sure my new bosses suspect it, but if they do they tolerate it, as I am by now the only mind-catcher left in the country. Realizing this, they even allowed me to take on an apprentice.

But a couple of months ago, following the election, there has been some change at the top. The head of the police force that employed me became the country's president, and a paranoid one at that. And he'd hired another paranoid guy to replace him.

Suddenly the police's authority was greatly extended. It has now become a real thought police, at the service of the new leader's propaganda machine. Opposition political parties have been the targets of major crackdowns.

Thankfully, until now, my job has essentially remained the same. I would receive an order, complete with a case reference. I had access to the case files, and I always checked them out of curiosity. So far I've only captured truly guilty minds for them.

Until yesterday, that is. The job they gave me yesterday was different. Looking through the case file, signed by the new police chief himself, i didn't see any actual proof of any wrongdoing. As far as I could see, this guy was just the number two in one of the main opposition parties, guilty of no more than expressing concern at the new leader's actions.

I fulfilled my orders with the usual precision and skill. But inside, for the first time since I had started in this career, I felt guilty. this subject was just a victim, a victim of a paranoid government in its efforts to institute its new propaganda.

I couldn't sleep at all last night, reeling from the implications of what I had just done on my bosses' orders. Instead I stayed up. After a bottle of wine and a few hours of thinking, I knew I needed a plan. This morning when I left my home, my plan was ready.

For the first time in my life, I was going to get involved in politics. And for this, I was going to do what I do best, and stay ahead of the authorities the same way I always had.

I headed out to work. On the way I withdrew my savings, so as to have enough cash with me. I arrived at the central precinct, and immediately requested a meeting with the chief. During the meeting I expressed my concerns... that our actions weren't part of a bigger, more systematic program.

He agreed with me completely and started expounding his plan to make this systematic and far-reaching, targeting not only political opposition but autists, schizophrenics, immigrants, disabled people, racial minorities and religious believers. I had overheard him describing bits of this over coffee, but now I was getting confirmation.

He and the new President wanted to turn this country into a new Nazi regime, only this time with a powerful new weapon: me. He was going to use me to train a whole class of mind-catchers. He was going to reshape the country in their image by neutralizing all who didn't fit their model. By stealing their minds.

All the while the recorder in my briefcase was catching his every word. I needed this recording as evidence. When we'd finished our discussion, I acted reassured and confident the plan would work. I bent down to pick up my briefcase, opening a vial of narcotic gas underneath his desk and holding my breath. I then got up, shook his hand and walked to the door. But instead of leaving, I locked it. By then the chief was already drowsy. I put a gas mask on.

Once the police chief had gone to sleep, I took out my equipment and put it on his head. I knew this would be my only chance to act. Once the agents found their boss without a mind, they would know I had double-crossed them, and they would hunt me down. I had to act quickly and get away quietly.

The mind cap buzzed with activity for about an hour, transferring all his memories, his past, his feelings, everything, through the rubber pipe to the empty bottle on the desk, already labeled with a fake name and the date.

When that was finished, I packed everything away. The sleeping gas, I knew, would still give me another half hour to get out of there. Making sure I left no traces in the office, I unlocked the door and left the precinct the back way.

Since then I've been hiding out at my uncle's old place, which is now an auto shop. It's been my uncle's front business for his entire career, and when he died I sold it and opened my own front elsewhere. But I'm friends with Jack, the new owner, having helped him end his grandmother's suffering by removing her memories of the past war and her intense PTSD.

She's doing better now, much more cheerful. He's retrained her well, following my advice. He seems to have convinced her that I'm a relative, and she keeps inviting me over for lunch at their place above the auto shop. Today I took her up on that, the better to hide out there for a while.

That's where I am now, of course. Sitting on their sofa looking at the bag on the table. Inside this bag is the bottle with the police chief's mind. I think of the implications of what I've just done. And then a thought strikes me: this mind probably contains a lot more information than I imagine, and possibly a lot of information that would be useful to plenty of people. And some of those people would use it... for all the wrong reasons.

Another disturbing thought strikes me... I could use this information myself, for my own purposes, if I choose to. Just the thought of that makes me shudder. My original plan was just to reveal the recording from this morning to people who would be able to overthrow the government. But this... this is dangerous. I need to get rid of it. I need to hide it.

Unfortunately, it's almost impossible to destroy a captured mind. The only fool-proof way is to bleach it, an extremely delicate operation that first involves converting it to a liquid form that won't just waft back into the atmosphere, spreading random bits of itself into random people's minds and potentially causing significant side-effects.

When I bleach a mind, I'm usually in a specially protected lab with specialized equipment that prevents any of those side-effects. Obviously, if the cops are going to be after me, I can't go back home to my own lab. And Jack tore my uncle's old lab down entirely a year ago to expand his business.

I need to think about this. I can't just leave this lying around. I can't just throw it away. I can't entrust it to anyone, lest they break or open the bottle. I can't let these ideas get back out there.

I know what I'll do. After lunch, I'll pack my things again and go. I'll cross the border and find a place to hide out. But wait - it still won't be safe. Suddenly I realize that this bottle I have in my possession is nothing but a time bomb...

I need to get rid of it far, far away from anyone, where it won't affect anyone. Where that is, I don't know. Just not here. Not in this country. I have to go, today. Far away. to the middle of the ocean or the middle of Antarctica or wherever. I need to hide this bottle where it will never be found and its contents will never be released. I'll leave after lunch.

***

OK, I've made it. I'm at the south pole. It's bloody freezing! Hopefully the temperature will play in my favor. I've never seen a mind in such conditions before, for all I know it might have liquefied or solidified already, and be easier to handle.

I take my briefcase and walk about a km away from the Pole itself. I take my shovel and start digging through the snow. After a few meters I make it to the first layer of ice. I swap the shovel for a pickaxe and continue digging.

After two hours of this I've dug a hole about 2m down into the ice. My thermal clothing's efficiency is starting to be beaten by the ambient cold, however, and I'm already starting to tremble. I get out of the hole, go to the sleigh and grab another coat as well as the briefcase.

Getting back to the hole, I take out the bag with the bottle. I've lined it with several layers of foam, to make damn sure the bottle didn't break on the way. I take out the bottle and prepare to lay it into the hole and cover it up.

A sudden gust of wind almost shakes me off my feet and at the same time causes me to shiver violently. The bottle falls into the hole and smashes at the bottom. A bluish liquid spreads on the ice, but still gives off a bit of smoke. I desperately try to get away from it and shovel snow back onto it.

But the wind makes my efforts unsuccessful. I hold my breath, to avoid inhaling any of it. Unfortunately minds are more treacherous than that... They can go through clothing and skin, and just holding my breath can only delay what is now inevitable.

I start shoveling snow back into the hole, but progressively my mind starts teeming with different things. My movements become more erratic and random. Pretty soon I drop the shovel entirely and fall to the floor, twitching randomly with all my body.

I have visions of strange people, an unknown woman, Jack, the President, children being tortured and killed, myself stealing the police chief's mind, an ideal society where everyone thinks like me, the President's right hand...

Me, I have to stop this... I suddenly slap myself, without meaning to. It's the effects of that mind contam... I'm in front of me, talking about concerns about the prog... I'm digging myself into the snow with my random movements. It's too l... We'll manage, Mr. President, we'll succeed. I have just the m...

Noooo! It's too late... I... I can't... They'll all die! All the substandard people, all the undesi... I can't go back. I can't... I can't do anyth... I can't even get up... There's only one thing to do... Kill them all...

No! No! I have to stop it! But I can't... I shouldn't... In a last moment of lucidity, I realize I shouldn't even try to go back. I must let myself die there, on the snow, at the bottom of the world...

And the world will be peaceful and united under the Optimal Race... It's cold... It's so cold... I must... let myself... die...

[tumbleweedshorts]

Family Secrets (Part 3/6)

Inspiration: This is the third part of an earlier story, Family Secrets, that I started writing based on a prompt seen on Facebook. If you haven't read it yet, you can find part 1 here and part 2 here.

It had now been a week and Danny's mom was giving no sign of relaxing or letting them out. She was still really nervous, spending most of her time sitting on one of the armchairs, which she had turned to face the locked door. She would hardly answer when Danny spoke to her, and he was afraid to talk to her or ask her any questions. Left to his own devices, he had to find ways to keep busy. At first, as there was nothing much to do, he finished his homework. Then, he fine-tuned it.

Eventually, with boredom setting in and his mom still staring at the door, he took it upon himself to explore the makeshift bunker they found themselves in. He found a cupboard full of old books, mostly what looked like ledgers and official paperwork for the hotel, but also a few old novels and some magazines. He started alternating between reading the novels and exploring.

At meal times (according to his watch), as his mother was hardly active any more, he took it upon himself to take cans out of the pantry, warm them up on the electric stove and serve them up. She ate her fill, but grew ever more thin and gaunt. He started to get more and more worried about her. Whatever was happening was clearly freaking her out. Still he didn't dare ask her anything.

At night, they slept on two sofas beneath thin blankets. But given the dark rings under his mother's eyes every morning, he got the feeling she was hardly getting any sleep at all. One time, he was awakened in the middle of the night by a loud thud. He thought he saw his mother picking up a dark heavy object before getting back to sleep, but couldn't make out what exactly.

***

Another month later, as far as he could count, he made a disturbing discovery. He'd been through the entire place, and it held nothing more interesting than what he'd already found. He'd read all the novels and magazines available and looked in every nook and cranny of the basement. The supplies of cans were running low and the ever-present smell was getting overpowering.

He decided to start looking at one of the ledgers, for lack of anything better to do. Long lists of numbers and what looked like dates, most of them 10 years old. Normal, for a ledger. There were names associated with them too. He started imagining stories in his mind involving people with those names, just to pass the time.

Then, just as he was turning a page, something fell out of the ledger. Picking it up, he noticed it was a small sheet of card paper, about 10cm by 15cm, with some very official-looking writing on it. It looked like some sort of ID card. He could barely make out the handwritten annotations on it, but the logo in the corner was very recognizable: that of the Stasi, the same logo he'd seen all those weeks ago in the library, the same one he thought was on the papers in his mom's closet. Aside from the logo and the handwriting, there was a photo. Danny didn't recognize the man in the photo.

He started trying to decipher the handwriting: Under "Vorname", he thought he could make out "Johann". Under "Nachname" it looked like... "Garkundt"? "Carhardt"? "Gerkandt"? Putting the ledger down on the table, he brought the paper closer to the single lamp that was lighting the scene. Suddenly he recognized it: "Gerhardt". Below that was some more information.

Geburtsdatum: 30. September 1940 Geschlecht: M Geburtsort: Erfurt Wohnungsort: Lichtenberg, Ost-Berlin Nationalität: Ostdeutsch Familienstand: Verheiratet Datum: 25. Juni 1968 Unterschrift:

Followed by a signature.

He turned the card over, and gasped in shock. A picture of his mother, several years younger but still unmistakably her, looked back at him. Alongside it were the words:

>Verheiratet mit >Vorname: Brigit >Nachname: Honegger >Geburtstag: 06. April 1947 >Geburtsort: Dresden >Nationalität: Ostdeutsch >Kinder: ø

Still staring at the card, he turned away from the cupboard. He wanted to compare the photo with his mom's face, to make sure this wasn't a joke. There it was, the resemblance was clear. Then suddenly, all the memories of what he'd seen clicked into place and connected. The newspaper clipping with his picture, talking about an accident that clearly never happened. The birth certificate with a name he didn't recognize. The extra passports. The papers in the other boxes with the Stasi logo. Even the way she had apparently lied to him all his life about his father. And...

He bumped the table and made the heavy ledger fall loudly to the floor. Almost immediately there was a deafening bang that sent him, shocked and scared, to the floor. Ears ringing, he got up slowly. Looking toward his mom to see if she was all right, he saw her standing petrified with fear, aiming the gun at the door. It seemed she'd been holding it this whole time, and the ledger falling had startled her into shooting it.

After a few seconds of shock during which both breathed rather heavily, his mother sat down, sobbing gently, and Danny walked hesitantly toward her, not sure what to say.

"Sorry, Mom, I didn't mean to..."

His mom just kept sobbing. Danny didn't know what to do. His instinct was to go and hug her, but he stood rooted to the spot. He'd never seen her behave like this before. And the gun scared him out of his wits.

"M- Mom?" He took a step forward, then stopped. Forcing himself, he walked toward her and put a hand on her shoulder. She kept sobbing and didn't even look up. He sat down next to her on the sofa, his eyes looking warily at the gun which was now held loosely in her hand, pointing at the floor. He didn't dare touch it, not even to take it out of her hand. But he recognized it: it was the same one he'd found in the box months ago.

Putting his arm around her, he said again, "M- Mom?” Still no answer. Then suddenly, confusion and fear and concern all piling up inside him, he too started sobbing. They sat there, both crying, for several minutes. Then his mom calmed down and gave the first human sign of life she'd given in weeks.

"Danny... Danny, it's okay."

Danny took another minute or so to calm down. Somehow he felt a bit better.

"Danny..."

Danny stayed silent, unsure what to say or where to start.

They sat there, both silent, for a while longer.

"Danny, I... I need to tell you... the truth."

Continued in part 4

[tumbleweedshorts]

The Job

Inspiration: A friend of mine pointed me to this writing prompt on Reddit, and I figured I'd take up the challenge:

The more dangerous a job is, the more it pays. You just took a job offer to stand in an empty room and do nothing for $100k an hour.

I'm feeling apprehensive as I enter the room. Apart from the door I just came through, there is one other door on the opposite wall... A massive one. I'm starting to regret this already. I was offered this mission, with a promise of 100 grand an hour for the amount of time I can stand being in this room. When you realize that the mean salary in my country is only $2 an hour, this is a huge increase.

There's a chair in the room. Warily, I make my way toward it. Nothing happens. I feel around the chair for any danger. Nothing obvious. Delicately, carefully, I sit down on it. Nothing happens. I'm nervous. My eyes keep darting in all directions, sure that something nasty will pop out at me from the tiled walls, ceiling or floor.

I guess this is what they call courage: when you know it's dangerous but you do it anyway. Some would call it plain old stupid. But in my position, did I have a choice? I'm unemployed, and I'm supporting my ailing mother and grandmother, my disabled wife and my five children. This offer was too good to pass up.

OK, according to my watch, it's now been five minutes and nothing has yet happened to me. I'm starting to feel both more relaxed and more consciously aware that a surprise might pop up at any time. I'm torn between the certainty that this whole affair was a bluff and the constant fear of something, anything, popping out at me.

I try to relax and think about other things. What would I do with a hundred grand? Most of my friends would picture buying a fancy car or a nice house. Me, I don't know... I've never even held a whole hundred dollars in my hand at a time. I imagine I would be afraid of that kind of money. Afraid of losing it. Afraid of how it might affect me. Afraid of becoming greedy and just wanting more.

A small creak startles me and I jump up out of the chair, looking desperately around me for any sign of what caused it. My heart is racing and I'm sweating like mad. Finding nothing, I sit back down to try to relax again. As I sit down, I hear the chair creak. Oh, that's all it was.

So what would I do with all that money? I don't even know. What is most important to me? I know that, of course. My family. My mother and grandmother and wife need medical care, and none of them can work. My five kids, all younger than 10, are barely of school age. I can't even afford to send them to school, so I've been teaching them at home.

I know: I'll make sure they go to school. Not an expensive school, just enough to ensure some quality education. Maybe that way they can progress to college, which I never managed to enter, and break the cycle of poverty this family has been caught in for decades. all I have to do is last an hour in this room for that. And if I last longer, it's even better.

I look at my watch again: it's been 8 minutes. My nerves are frayed, I'm freaked out, always worrying what's about to attack me... I'm not sure how much longer I can stand it. Suddenly a memory pops up in my mind. My daughter, 4-year-old Davina, asking me all about the stars and the sky, and saying when she grows up she wants to go to the moon and the stars.

No, I really can't give up now. I can't dash her hopes. Just as I can't dash 6-year-old Joey's hopes of being a doctor or 9-year-old Danny's ambition to be a scientist. And the 3-year-old twins, Sara and Laura, who are already teaching themselves how to read... No. I couldn't give up now. I probably would never again get another such opportunity in my life.

Determined to stick it out, I sit there, still scared stiff. Every time I start to relax, coaxing a little confidence back into my mind, a little something pops up to get me back on edge. It's exhausting. I really don't know how much longer I'll be able to put up with it. I check my watch: fifteen minutes.

They told me that I'll be paid according to how long I stay in the room before I call it quits. Doing the math in my mind, that's $1,666 a minute. I've already made $25,000. and they did say that if anything happens to me the money will still go to my family.

But another question comes into my mind... Is it really worth it? Is it worth it to wait longer and get more money if I'm not going to be there to enjoy it or see the results? Half of my mind tells me to give up and stop now. But the other half is speaking louder. Think of the kids. Think of Jane. Think of Mom and Grandma.

Somehow I decide I shouldn't just stay in the chair the whole time. I have to do something. Getting up, I decide to explore the room to try and figure out the dangers or threats, and maybe, just maybe, be able to counter them. A reckless survival instinct overtakes me.

Feeling around the walls, I examine every tile and the caulk between them, trying to find out if one of them could open up and send something nasty my way. I feel the tiles, press them, try to slide them. To no avail. I'm wary of going near the doors.

I then look at the joints between the walls. More plain old caulk. I check out the floor: a wood parquet floor, impeccable, brand-new, smooth as glass. Not a single loose board. The ceiling is too high for me to reach, but it's also tiled, and from where I'm standing I can see it's just like the walls.

I become ever more convinced that anything dangerous will come in through one of the doors, probably the big one. I start walking toward it. But just as I'm walking something else happens: the lights go out.

I freeze in place, unsure what to do. There are no windows, no other lights. I'm in complete, utter, pitch-black darkness. I've always been pretty proud to say I'm not afraid of the dark, but suddenly in this situation I fully realize what my kids mean when they say they are.

I check my watch. The glow-in-the-dark hands tell me I've been in there 32 minutes. I start feeling despondent, and the desire to call it quits and get out gets stronger and stronger. I've already made over 50 grand. Surely that's enough already!

Suddenly I realize I'm sitting on the floor, curled into a ball. My fear must have really gotten the better of me... But somehow it feels more comfortable that way, and less dangerous.

After several minutes of this I regain some energy, but somehow I've lost my patience and my cool and my rationality. I start to scream at the room to send me something, anything, to kill me already, to not just leave me there to wait. I jump to my feet and run at the walls, trying to push them away.

Suddenly the lights come back on. That startles me into silence, and momentarily blinds me. When my eyes have had time to adjust, I look around again. Nothing has changed. Wait... something has changed. It somehow feels like the room has gotten smaller. It's feeling more oppressive and tighter. My chest is starting to feel tighter and my breathing more constricted.

Then I spot the big door again. It's still right there in the middle of the wall. Maybe the room isn't shrinking after all. I go back around to check the joints. Still intact. I count the tiles, just for something to do. Then I count them again. Same number.

I go back to the chair and sit down. I'm exhausted. I really want to just lie down and sleep, but I still don't know what could jump out at me at any time. I check the time. Forty-five minutes. Seventy-five grand. Then a nagging doubt comes into my mind. What if this were all a trick? Are they really going to let me out when I ask them? Will they really pay me for this? Are they just waiting to attack me the moment I say I want out?

Suddenly I break down. I fall to the floor, in a kneeling position, like a Muslim praying, and burst into tears. Tears of sorrow, of anger, of regret, but mostly of fear. Only this time, I realize, I'm not so much afraid of the room any more. I'm afraid of the people who got me in here. What is it they really want? To make me talk? What do I know that they could possibly find useful? To kill me? Why? Revenge? What have I done to earn that?

I stay there, still crying, for a while. The fears mount in my head, swirling and intensifying and piling up until I can't stand it any more. I throw my head back and scream. A long, loud, terrified scream. I can't take this any more. I have to get out of here, if it's the last thing I do. I get up and run to the door, the same one I came in through. I bang on it repeatedly and scream at them to let me out.

After what feels like an eternity, the door pulls away from me and I fall to the floor. I'm out of here. And yet it doesn't feel like it. Getting up, I shy away when they come toward me. One of them grabs my shoulders and I fight back, instinctively. But he's stronger, much stronger than I am and manages to wrestle me into a chair.

From the chair I can see out the window. The park, the grass, the flowers, the birds, the sunlight... Slowly, very slowly, I regain my senses. They're standing all around me. All wearing what looks like lab coats. Then the tall one, the one who made the offer in the first place, pulls a chair toward me, sits on it and starts to speak, really calmly.

"It's OK. You've done great. You stayed in there seventy-two minutes. Congratulations, you've lasted longer than any of the other subjects. We will be wiring $120,000 to your account."

The others start clapping. It takes a while for me to register what is happening. I succeeded. I survived. I've won a hundred and twenty thousand dollars. Far from feeling excited, however, I'm utterly exhausted.

"Really? Thank you" I manage weakly.

The tall one is speaking again, still in his calm soothing voice.

"You see, there was no danger in being inside that room. We had to make you believe it for the experiment to work. We're making tests on fear and its effects on behavior. You have helped us beyond our wildest expectations. The money is well deserved."

"Oh. That's... good, isn't it?" I answer, too tired to think.

"Very good. Now if you'll just sign this form here, you'll be able to go home to your family."

Weakly, I manage to sign the form.

Holding his hand out toward me, the tall one says again, "Thank you very much. And best of luck to you and your family!"

I shake his hand, starting to realize the implications. I’ve succeeded. I’ve made six figures in just over an hour. I’m going to be able to help my family.

It isn’t until I’m back out in the street that the full awareness of what I’ve just done hits me. Then, all exhaustion gone, I hurry back home to tell my family the news.

[tumbleweedshorts]

Family Secrets (part 2/6)

Inspiration: This the second part of an earlier story, Family Secrets, that I wrote from a prompt seen on Facebook. If you haven't read it yet, you can find part 1 here

Danny was still extremely curious, and wanted to ask his mother about what he'd read. But how could he do that without letting on that he'd been in her closet again? He sat pensively in the car all the way back home, absent-mindedly twirling his skateboard's wheels and staring out the windshield without really paying attention.

"So how was your day?" his mother asked.

"Meh. Same old, same old..." he answered simply.

She insisted. "And how did Math class go? Was Mrs. Harvey still hard on you?" Mrs. Harvey, Danny's Math teacher, was a sour old toad of a woman who, people said, had repeatedly been denied promotion to teaching high school classes and as a result took it out on her middle school students. And she constantly tried to slip high-school math in their middle-school Pre-Algebra classes, berating any student who couldn't handle that (in other words, all but one or two students).

"I didn't have class today, Mom, it's a holiday." He suddenly turned to look at her, puzzled. It was weird, she usually never missed that kind of detail. Looking at her properly for the first time that afternoon, he saw she looked strained and nervous. She was darting her eyes all around, her hands clenching the steering wheel more tightly than he'd ever seen her do it, with her knuckles turning white.

"Mom... are you all right?" he asked, puzzled. His understanding of his mother was shaken by what he'd read, but not enough to make him care less about her. About a year ago, he'd gotten into a big argument with her, and since then he'd been much more sollicitous and caring to her.

The argument had been about his father. He'd been asking her questions about his dad for years, and the story was usually always the same: his dad had left her ten years earlier, for another woman. She'd told him a lot about him, and made him seem like a great guy who'd just realized his mistake. She'd even said the breakup had been mutual. Danny really wanted to track him down and find him. Then, one day, he'd asked his mom where he could find his dad. She had stayed quiet for a moment, as if stunned. Then she yelled at him that his dad had never wanted him in the first place, and that Danny shouldn't try to look him up. But even as she was saying that she'd burst into tears, something Danny had never seen before. He'd been deeply shocked and moved by this. After he'd managed to calm her down, she'd apologized and told him it was true, that his dad had left her because she was pregnant, and that knowing him, he wouldn't want any child of his to reach out to him. She'd asked Danny never to talk about him again, it was still too hard on her.

However, even this memory, and the fact that the inconsistency added up suspiciously with what he'd read, couldn't repress his urge to help her. As she wasn't answering, he repeated his question, looking worried now.

"Yeah, Danny, I'm fine, thanks." She cast a half-smile in his direction and resumed her darting glances in every direction. Danny, unsure what to do, decided to wait until they got home. Then he'd make her a cup of her favorite tea. That might help her calm down.

When they got home, however, a nasty surprise awaited them. A rope was sitting on the doormat, knotted into a noose. Upon seeing this, Danny's mom's balance faltered, and she leaned on the fence for a few minutes. Danny was surprised. Surely a bad joke from a neighbor, he thought. The budding suspicion he had didn't yet allow him to imagine it could be anything else. Danny opened the door and made to pick up the rope.

"NO! Don't touch that!" his mom said suddenly.

"What? Why not?"

After a few moments of silence, his mom seemed to regain her balance then, walking carefully around the rope, entered the house and went to slump onto a kitchen chair.

"Mom... What's going on?"

"We have to leave." she said weakly.

"What?"

"Don't ask questions. Pack everything you can in your suitcase, and make sure you're back here in 10 minutes."

He didn't need her to tell her twice. When she'd used that tone of voice in the past, it usually meant that the next step was to have him dine on dry bread and plain water.

As he packed he wondered. The rope must have meant something to her. A message, maybe? But why send a message in that way? What was the sender trying to say? Was it a reminder, maybe? Or a threat? An unknown fear started to grip Danny by now. He was making connections and didn't like the conclusion. But while his mom was in that state of mind, there was nothing he could do to find out more. He quickly finished packing and went back downstairs to the kitchen.

His mother was waiting there, with her own suitcase.

Without a word, she led him out of the house and back to the car. They put the suitcases on the backseat, got in and left. After about an hour, they had left the city and were in the countryside. She turned the car off the highway and stopped the car at an old farm. She got out, went straight up to the barn and opened it. Minutes later, she came back and drove the car into the barn. She told Danny to take the suitcases to the other car. She herself went to an old table in the corner, fiddled around it for a few seconds, and came back with a key. Getting into the driver's seat of the new car, she motioned to Danny to join her.

They drove out of the barn without a word. By this point, Danny's confused suspicions were hardening into certainty. His mom must indeed have had a secret background, maybe as a secret agent of some sort, that she'd never told him about. He brooded over this for a while. His mom, still nervous and apparently in shock, didn't say anything.

After two hours of intense driving, she parked the car at an abandoned hotel by a lake. Before they arrived there, an awful smell had assaulted their senses. Danny had heard about this place from a friend of his, whose dad works in cleaning it up: it must be the Salton Sea.

His mother got out, told Danny to stay put, then entered the hotel. A few minutes later she came back to the car.

"It's safe. Come inside with your case." They walked into the abandoned hotel. A ruined art deco lobby with dusty old couches all over. Danny followed his mother to a staircase and down to a basement. His mother seemed to relax a bit at this point.

"There we are." She went to close and lock the basement door.

"Mom... what's going on?" Danny asked, starting to be afraid now.

"Nothing, just... nothing."

"It's not nothing, Mom... we just left our house to come to this basement, and I..." he almost let slip he'd been snooping again, but checked himself. "I'm worried about you."

"You're so sweet! But don't worry, it's just for a few days."

Danny was shocked. "A few days? But what about school? What about your job?"

"I've called the school and told them you're sick" she said, not missing a beat.

"What?" Danny stood there, in utter disbelief.

His mom sat there and didn't answer.

"Mom..." The fear was starting to show in his voice now, "wh- what's going on?"

"Ohhh Danny, don't be afraid. It's just... I need some time to think, that's all"

"But why not stay at home? Does this have anything to do with... you know, what we found on the doormat?" He didn't want to scare her again, but had no choice.

His mother sighed deeply. "Yes, it has to do with that. But I really don't want to drag you into this, so please don't ask me again!" she answered, almost pleading.

***

They spent several days hiding out in that basement, feeding off of a store of canned meals that looked like it could last them for months. Danny was more confused than ever, but still dared not ask his mother any more questions. But he knew he'd have to at some point.

Continued in part 3

[tumbleweedshorts]

Crop Circles

Inspiration: I wrote this story from the following prompt, seen on Facebook:

saucer, elastic, interrupt, future, warehouse, corporation

Ridiculous. More reports of UFOs. The fourth time this week. Joe looked up from his newspaper to see his wife Polly, standing at the sink doing the dishes. Breakfast that day had been the usual. Average toast served with average maple syrup bought at an average outlet supermarket in an average country town, so he could go out of his average kitchen and average house to harvest his average crop of average wheat, that he would then sell to a global corporation who would then store it in a warehouse, then mass process it and turn it into more average toast for his average breakfasts... The future did indeed look bleak.

He was interrupted by a noise outside.

"What was that?" he asked Polly.

"What?"

"I said, what was that?" he repeated, louder this time. Polly's hearing was starting to go.

"What was what?"

"I heard a noise outside..."

Polly glanced out the window, then recoiled.

"Joe... It's... It's..."

"What?"

"A crop circle..." she said, and slumped down onto the nearest chair, suddenly lost for words...

Joe stared at her, disbelief in his eyes.

"Come on, you know they're bull"

"No... I mean it... Joe, it's right out there."

With Polly seated in the chair, Joe could now see out the window above the sink. But from his angle, all he could see was the tops of the wheatstalks at the edge of the field. He put his newspaper down on the table, stood up and went to the sink to have a better view. He thought he could see it, but it was inconclusive. Polly had been known to exaggerate things in the past... Still, he wasn't about to let anything get in the way of his harvest. He walked out, taking his rifle from the wall hook by the door, and went to the field. No circle. It did indeed look like Polly had imagined it. He went back to the farmhouse, told Polly it was just his imagination, and sat down again to finish his coffee. Polly, once calmed down, finished doing the dishes and went out to handle the laundry.

Another noise came from outside. He raised the cup and saucer to his lips for another sip of coffee. That's when he saw it. Dead ahead of him, through the window, another saucer, a flying one. He must have been hallucinating. He was 100% convinced that aliens didn't exist and wouldn't make crop circles or abduct people or even come and bother us humans. Yet there it was, right in front of him. He stumbled out of the house, grabbing his rifle again and heading toward the field, the same field where Polly had thought she'd seen a crop circle. There it was, hovering about 3 meters above the ground.

Joe stood rooted to the spot. Then his mind reminded him he should do something, but couldn't remind him what to do. Fight or flight kicked in. Joe shouldered his rifle, aimed at the flying saucer and fired. The bullet just bounced off, as if the saucer were elastic. Then fight turned to flight. He started running away, but he hadn't gone 2 meters when there was a deafening sound like an electric arc, an actual electric arc, and suddenly Joe was dead. He hadn't even seen it coming. He crumpled to the ground.

At this point Polly, who this time heard the noise, came out of the house to see what was up. She first found Joe's body on the ground. She knelt by him to see if he was OK. She extended two fingers to her late husband's exposed neck to feel for a pulse. Before she even touched him, she got zapped by the residual current left in him. Scared, she suddenly got up. A weird light was shining off to her left, and she turned to look that way. When she saw the field and the flying saucer hovering above it, she too fled, and like her husband she was hit with an electric arc and killed immediately.

Her body fell to the ground, her fingertips a mere centimeter away from his. Another electric arc appeared between the two hands, like a final spark of the love that had united the two for so many years.

***

Sherriff McManus looked puzzled. This was the fifth UFO sighting or crop circle he'd heard about in a week in his county. This time, however, it had cost two lives and the coroners hadn't been able, for the life of them, to determine a cause of death. Walking through the field, he saw another crop circle, just like the others. No, not just like the others. Two lines of scorched wheatstalks stretched away from the circle in the directions of the two bodies.

He didn't see what more could be done. He returned to his office with the few pictures he'd taken at the scene, then finalized the case file and left it on his desk with the other four as unsolved...

[tumbleweedshorts]

Family Secrets (part 1/6)

Inspiration: in one of the writers’ groups on Facebook, I saw this prompt:

A twelve year old finds a shoebox in the back of his mother’s closet. Inside the shoebox is a gun, a yellow stained newspaper clipping with his photo, and a birth certificate with a burn spot in the middle of it. Challenge. Could you turn this into a story?

I wrote the following based on this.

Danny was stunned. His photo stared back at him through at least seven years of his life. It was part of some kind of article detailing how a boy named Hans Fischer and his mother Margit had died in an apparent murder-suicide in New York City. He put the clipping back in the box and turned to the other paper in there. It was a birth certificate. What struck him was the date of birth: “15 März 1982”. HIS date of birth. But the name on the certificate was… Hans Fischer. It was only then that Danny realized the birth certificate was written in German. Right where the birth place was supposed to be written, there was a burnt spot. He tried to make out the place but couldn’t. Looking at the names of the parents, he saw they were Margit Schulz, 35, and Friedrich Fischer, 42.

This left Danny utterly confused. As far back as he could remember, he’d been Danny Beck. He’d never known his dad, and his mom had raised him in the USA, teaching him German all the while. He’d been in school in LA for years and always fit in just fine. As far as his classmates knew, in fact, he was 100% pure all-American. It had come as a real shock to Joe when Danny had told him he spoke German. But this… This opened up a whole bunch of questions about who he was. Or at least who his family was. Was this the birth certificate of a twin brother he had? Or was it his own? And the picture? He had to try to find out more.

Then there was the matter of the gun. He was terrified of guns, having heard many stories already about the rampant gun violence in some parts of the LA suburbs. He was afraid even to touch this gun. It lay there, on top of yet more papers in that otherwise empty box. He didn’t have a clue how guns worked, whether this one was loaded or functional or anything. But still he dared not touch it.

Putting the clipping and the certificate back in this box, he closed it and laid it aside. Finding another under where this one was, he opened it too. In there he found strange documents, also written in German, but he could hardly understand what they meant. Most of them were just written in some kind of gibberish, but two of them had handwritten notes added which referred to weird stuff… “3kg leeks, 4kg turnips, 20 boxes of raisins, to be delivered to the market…” Underneath those he found a faded card with what looked like his mom’s face on it, and some unreadable text.

A noise in the hallway brought him back to reality. He hurriedly put both boxes back in the closet as he’d found them, then made his way out of his mom’s room. She found him just as he was closing the door.

“What were you doing in my room?” she asked him, in German as usual.

“Just…” he didn’t know what to answer.

“Were you looking through my stuff?” she asked him with a suspicious look on her face.

“No, mom, I swear!” he said, then, suddenly thinking of a reason, added, “I was just looking for my skateboard. You said I could use it again, but didn’t give it back.”

This much was true. She’d confiscated it because he was jumping off a makeshift ramp in the front yard with it, and had very nearly broken his neck with a false landing.

The suspicion vanished from her face. Her eyes relaxed and she answered, “Oh, yeah, true, I’m sorry. I’ll get it for you.” Then, turning stern again, she added, “But I’ve told you before never to go looking through my stuff. Next time I catch you, the skateboard ends up in the dumpster.”

“Yes, Mom.” Danny answered, looking contrite. “I was just bored, and I wanted it back. I’m sorry, Mom.” He went up to her and hugged her. He knew that always calmed her temper down. Indeed, she softened her tone and her posture and returned the hug.

***

The next day was a public holiday. But his mom still had to work, and left him home alone again. Intrigued by his discovery of the previous day, he started searching through the rest of the house in case he found more information. There was nothing. By noon, he was getting frustrated and his curiosity was overflowing. He desperately wanted to just ask his mom about it, but that would of course mean admitting he’d looked through her stuff and she wouldn’t let that fly. He could go to the library to try to look something up, but he wouldn’t know what on Earth to look up.

His mom’s bedroom door stood tantalizingly closed before him for hours. By 3pm, he decided to go for it. He needed to know what this was about, and the only way seemed to be by betraying his word to his mom. He opened the door and went to the closet. He found and opened the box with the gun. This time, he gathered up his courage and nudged it aside, just enough to be able to grab the papers underneath it. There was a passport, a French one, with a younger picture of his mom and the name Josiane Meunier, and a baby picture of him with the name François Meunier. The date of issue looked to be June 24th, 1984.

Beneath that, two more passports, Canadian this time. Both contained current pictures, and the dates of issue were only a few weeks ago, in February 1994. But the names were different again. Joanne Claude and Jérémy Blondel.

He couldn’t make head or tail of this. He went back to the second box, but there was nothing more he could understand. He found a third box beneath those, and in there was a massive book. Opening this, he saw news clippings from all over, pointing to various unexplained disappearances, destructions and deaths.

Alongside them were notes describing… Danny gasped. From what he read, it sounded as though his mother had been involved in those.

He checked the time. He had until 5 to replace everything, put it back and leave the room before his mom came back. It was 4:30. As he couldn’t understand any more of this, he decided to pack it all up again and leave, making sure he left no traces.

Back in the kitchen, he poured himself a glass of milk and sat down to think. His mom had clearly been involved in some sort of covert operations. But what was the truth? Was he indeed Hans Fischer? The only way he could get more information without admitting his treachery to his mom was to go to the library and look up the events he’d read about. He took his skateboard, left a note on the kitchen table and took off.

Once at the library, he went straight to the newspaper collections and found the dates he’d seen. He found an article about one of the events. The article didn’t say any more than he’d already read, however. Less, in fact. RAF base Gatow had been broken into, and a hangar had been blown up. The article pointed to an accident. But her mom’s notes seemed to point to specific locations in the hangar and explosives to be placed there.

He tried to make sense of this in his mind. Then he remembered seeing a James Bond movie a couple of weeks earlier - he’d gone with Joe and his parents, who are a bit more relaxed on the PG-13 ratings and exaggerated their ages when buying the tickets. Both of them had been really excited to see a PG-13 movie for the first time in their lives, and they hadn’t been disappointed.

Anyway, he started making tenuous connections. He looked up more about the Cold War and various intelligence services. In the World Book encyclopedia, he found the entry for the Stasi, the East German intelligence service. A picture caught his eye. He didn’t recognize it. But it reminded him of the mostly faded logo on the papers from the second box.

It looked like his mother had led a secret life, working as an East German agent until the late 80s. But he knew so little still, and couldn’t figure out how to find out more. He’d have to ask her about it, but he’d need to find a way to do so without admitting to snooping again. That was going to be hard. He’d have to read up some more.

He stayed at the library until 7, when his mom came to pick him up.

“I found your note” she said, “Thanks for leaving it. What were you doing at the library, by the way? Homework?”

Danny hesitated. Not now, he thought.

“Yeah, homework.”

Then he turned away and got into the car for the ride home.

Continued in part 2

[tumbleweedshorts]

Sabotage Behind Enemy Lines

Inspiration: This is from a prompt containing the following words:

frog - graph - target - meddle - ensnared - suitcases

The rest of the story is improvised from part of John Christopher’s The Pool of Fire, combined with bits of other books like Forsyth’s spy thrillers.

We were ready for the operation. It was timed to the second, as it was extremely time-sensitive. We'd studied the graphs of power output in the target facility, to determine the ideal time to strike. We needed to enter the facility through the outflow tunnel, swimming against the current, to avoid the grates in the inflow tunnel.

We'd identified the ideal time as 02:45, when plant activity would be at a minimum. In order to complete the operation successfully, we'd need to enter fifteen minutes before that, no more, no less. We had to enter after 0230, once the security patrol had passed. That would give us 15 minutes to prepare the sabotage - and we'd need that long - and another fifteen to complete the operation and get out before the patrol passed by again.

We had diver propulsion vehicles (DPVs) to help us get us inside against the current. They would bring us well into the outflow vents until the point where the tunnel just gets too narrow for a diver and a vehicle. Beyond that we'd have to count on our regular frogman suits - wetsuits, scuba gear, and fins - to swim the last ten meters or so into the actual plant.

So we prepared for the assault. Three large suitcases contained the six DPVs we would need. Ever since we'd been selected to meddle with the enemy's power supply, we'd all been nervous. We were deep behind enemy lines, and we hadn't had any trouble getting here. My teammates were happy about that, but most of them were juniors. I, on the other hand, was suspicious. It seemed too easy. I know my bosses are excellent at planning and executing these operations, but as the saying goes, no plan survives first contact with implementation, and through my experience I'd learned that the hard way a few times.

I was still plagued by memories of my last undercover operation, six months earlier, where my buddy Joe ended up literally and stupidly ensnared in a rabbit trap while navigating the woods at the home of a crime boss we were supposed to unmask as leader of a spy ring. I'd gotten out safe, but Joe was caught alive, and apparently later revealed parts of our plan, thus compromising several subsequent operations.

So when I briefed the team, I heavily insisted on the contingency plans. If we were detected on entry, we would just get out with the current, split up and each head for a different nearby village where egress kits had already been hidden. If we were caught while inside, we would kill the guards, get out immediately through the outflow vents, then split up in the same way.

So we got into the river, purged our scuba suits in order to sink, and turned on the DPVs. They pulled us quickly and swiftly against the current. We reached the point where the tunnel narrows, then as planned, dropped the DPVs. Pushing forward with the fins, we made it to the inner end of the tunnel. staying below the water, we regrouped and checked the time: 02:27. We needed to wait five more minutes, just to be sure. So we stayed there, hardly moving, still breathing canned air out of the tanks and into the rebreathers to avoid bubbles which might have given us away.

When my watch read 02:32 I signaled the others. We removed our scuba gear, opened the tank valves to evacuate the little remaining air, tied everything together and let it all sink and flow out with the current. We each had a small tank and regulator left with us for the egress.

We got out of the pool, made sure the coast was clear, then made our way to the main generators. We had to plant the explosives on them at the moment of lowest power output, because we needed to turn them off one by one without anyone noticing.

But before we left the area with the outflow vents, we had one more thing to take care of. Stephen opened a weak panel we knew would be in the wall and snipped a couple of wires to neutralize the surveillance cameras.

We then made our way to the generator room, and found the control panel. Having located the right switches and the exact places we were to plant the explosives, we got to work. Mark took from his waterproof bag the paper with the codes we needed, and entered them to validate himself as a superuser. Each of us stood next to a generator, ready to act quickly before output dropped enough for the system to raise an alarm. Mark didn't need to give us any signals. We were well trained for this, and ready to go. Once the red light on each generator was out, we'd wait exactly 30 seconds, plant the explosive on the still slowly spinning turbine, then give Mark the go ahead to restart.

This part of the operation went off without a hitch. Once finished, we packed everything up, Mark used his superuser privileges to delete all trace of our passage from the logs, and logged out.

We then made our way back to the outflow vent. Once there, we prepared, dove in, and swam out immediately with the current. Ten minutes later our air tanks were empty and we were breaking the surface of the water, well away from the plant. I was the second. Mark Dan had already emerged. Mark was next. Then came Chuck and Rob. But Jack didn't reappear. Worried, we waited another five minutes as per the plan. And five extra minutes. Then a darker shape broke the water just upriver. We reached it and saw that it was Jack. He was dead. There was a deep gash on his forehead and - we were stunned to see - a bullet hole in his back. Had we been seen? Had our operation failed? We would only know if the explosives failed to blow...

[tumbleweedshorts]

Personalities

Inspiration: as part of a story swap with a friend, I wrote this about a year ago from the three words: tower, mystery, entangled. Halloween is coming up, so let’s make it a bit spooky...

I woke up in a dark room. I felt strange. It felt like... felt like... like half of my body was asleep. I felt an itch on my nose. I tried to move my hand to reach it. It twitched, but otherwise stood still. I tried to move the other hand: that one worked fine. I couldn't help but wonder what had happened, where I was. Somehow I had confusing memories both of being hit by a car, and of being inside said car. Slowly I grew aware of a throbbing headache. What was going on?

I tried to sit up. It took a few minutes, but once I got used to moving my muscles it seemed to get easier. Once up, I looked around and found myself in a circular room. I was sitting on what looked like a crude stone operating table. To my right along the wall, there was a desk with a newspaper and a lamp on it. To my left, a sink with a mirror above it. And right behind me, from the shine of the full moon all around me, I guessed there must be a window.

A few minutes and several tries later, I managed to get off the table and on my feet. I had to keep holding onto the table, because I felt unbalanced. It was as if my legs weren't quite the same size. I looked down. In the semi-darkness I couldn't notice anything particular.

I walked to the sink to wash my face. Somehow I associated my feelings with a massive hangover. When I saw myself in the mirror I was shocked. There was a massive scar running diagonally across my face. My eyes were different colors, one my usual brown, and the other green. It looked like even my skin wasn't quite the same shade on both sides.

I dipped my head over the sink and splashed water over my face. When I rose again, I saw my face, still as before. I hadn't imagined it. One eye my usual green, the other one chocolatey brown. One side very white, the other with a healthy tan, separated by a neat suture scar.

Somehow I realized I had to find a way out of here before I figured out what had happened. I walked toward the window, and opened it. I was at the top of a tower in what looked like a derelict castle in the middle of the countryside. Even if I could get out of here, I would probably have to walk miles before I ran into any village where people could help me.

Anyway, first things first. Before I got out of the castle, I had to get out of the tower. And before I got out of the tower, I would need to get out of this room. I continued to the desk I'd spotted earlier, and flicked on the lamp. The newspaper was there. The front page contained a bold headline that I couldn't make out immediately. I picked it up to read it, but as I did two things fell out of it.

They were passports. One German, one Romanian. I opened each of them to figure out if one of them was mine. Somehow I recognized both names. Then I saw the pictures, and stood in shock. Silviu Pitescu was tan with brown eyes, and Hans Grüber was very white with green eyes.

I grabbed the desk to steady myself. I felt like I understood what had happened, but not consciously. The headline on the newspaper, in Romanian, caught my eye: "Accident de mașină ucide două". I picked it up and read. It described how on a lonely mountain road, a car had hit a hiker head-on while speeding around a curve near the Transylvanian town of Bran.

Trying not to think of the implications, I put the newspaper down and started searching through the desk drawers. I found a case labelled "Chirurgie" with a bright yellow "Achtung" label on it, a bag full of sutures, and clean lab coats and surgical masks.

Suddenly I didn't want to know any more. I turned to look at the rest of the room, and leaned on the desk. In the lamplight I could finally see what I had been missing: the door, set in a bit of wall almost opposite the window, but built of the same kind of stone as the walls.

I started moving toward it, but something else caught my eye: at the foot of the desk, a little booklet was lying there. I picked it up and rifled through it. Random pictures of Hans and Silviu in different situations. Somehow I both knew both of these men and didn't know either of them. I both remembered the settings of all these photos, and couldn't recognize them.

It was like I was these two people, and their memories were entangled in my mind. With this realization the truth sank in, and with it I sank to the floor, unable to accept it: Somehow I was no longer either Hans OR Silviu. Someone had found both of our remains in the countryside and had sewn our bits back together into a single new human being... me.

Tears welled up in me. I wasn't even sure whose. I used Silviu's right hand to wipe away Hans' tears while Hans' left hand held on to the leg of the desk. Who the hell was I?

UPDATE: I’m happy to announce this story was featured on @writerlydays“Halloween Horror” weekly challenge post!