Welcome to Write the Story! Each month, Writers Unite! will offer a writing prompt for writers to create and share a story with everyone. WU! wants to help our members and followers generate more traffic to their platforms. Please check out the authors’ blogs, websites, and Facebook pages and show them support. We would love to hear your thoughts about the stories and appreciate your support!
Winterthorne
Laura DePace
Winterthorne stood alone at the edge of the park. The beautiful snow that had surrounded him was all trampled now, from the feet of all of the children who had built him. He missed the sparkly clean snow blanket, but he was happy that so many children had come out to make him.
Adults, too, of course; it seemed that children were never allowed to do anything alone these days. He didn’t mind the adults, as long as they didn’t ruin the fun for the kids.
What a day that had been! A foot of snow had fallen overnight, and for once, it was the right kind of snow for building a snowman. Too often the snow was dry and fluffy; pretty, but pretty useless as far as snow crafts were concerned.
Winterthorne, of course, was an expert on all things snow-related. He knew all kinds of snow, from the icy, hard stuff to the tiny all-day flakes, to the big fluffy ones that look so pretty. Snowman snow was a special breed of snow.
That day after the snow, the sun came out and made the whole world sparkle. It was the kind of magical winter day that you usually only see on television: the kind where all the people stream out of their houses to play in the wintry wonderland. So many people! It had been very cold lately, and the people had been staying locked inside their warm houses. The sun was bright, though, and the people said it “felt warm,” even though it wasn’t. The snow storm had swooped in on a Thursday night, and everyone knew ahead of time that everything would be closed on Friday: no school, shops didn’t open, and office workers were told they could work from home. For the kids, it was a wonderful gift of a long weekend. They were determined to make the most of it.
They streamed out of their houses and filled the park with their shrieks and their laughter. They threw snowballs at each other and made snow forts, with flags made from rags and dish towels. They flopped into the snow, sinking down several inches, to make snow angels, until the park was ringed with a heavenly host. Although there was no hill in the park for sledding, the bigger kids pulled their little brothers and sisters – and a few cats and dogs – on sleds, round and round. One big black dog of indeterminate breed was enticed into bearing the sled rope around his neck and willingly playing sled dog for his boy and girl.
Finally the snowman building began; Winterthorne’s favorite part of winter. The snow packed easily, forming beautiful balls that grew and grew as the children rolled them around. As the snowballs got bigger, older, stronger children were recruited to roll them ever larger. Eventually the moms and dads were called in to help with the biggest ones.
Then came the suspenseful moment of the stacking. Would the snowball stay together, as the body was lifted to be placed on the base? Would one stay balanced on top of the other long enough for the swarm of children to pack in the snow to stick them together? Would the snowballs stay round? Was the bottom one big enough, the middle one too big? Was the head the right size?
Winterthorne helped as much as he could with his own creation. He used his snow magic to pull himself together, held his frost-breath while they worked on balancing his parts, concentrated on standing tall while the children pushed and patted him.
Once the snowballs were completed and stacked and packed together, the search began for the accessories: sticks for arms, stones for eyes. What about the nose? Did someone have a carrot they could use? The first try was too big; it was all Winterthorne could do to keep it from going straight through his head and coming out the other side. But after a break or two, his carrot-nose was just the right size.
The mouth, now; that was always a challenge. A pine cone? A spruce twig? There was no coal to be found, so they tried collecting bits of bark. Finally one of the littlest builders came up with a stick. It wasn’t a smile, but the children agreed it would have to do.
Plenty of clothes were volunteered to dress him up. Several children pulled off their scarves and hats to wrap and crown him. So many wanted him to wear theirs, that the children set up a schedule: these for today, those for tomorrow.
Finally he was done. Perfect! Winterthorne stood tall and proud. The children joined hands and danced in a circle around him, singing songs and laughing.
Finally the children were called home for supper and baths and bedtime. Winterthorne stood alone, guarding the snowy park.
The next day, the children came out to visit him. They played around him, pretending that he was a policeman, or a band director, or a teacher, or a wizard. (He liked being a wizard best.) They changed his hat and his scarf, and stuck mittens on his stick arms. The first few days – Saturday and Sunday – he had lots of company. But on Monday the children were back in school, and their parents were back at work, and no one had time to play with him. He spent his days remembering the fun when the children made him. He waited – patiently, silently, peacefully – and the days went by.
But today. Today he felt a change in the air. Could it be that another storm was coming? Another storm that would bring him company? Maybe the children would make another snowman! Oh, he hoped so!
Was that a snowflake? And another?
One by one, then ten by ten, then in countless numbers – the snow drifted gently down. And Winterthorne smiled.
Welcome to Write the Story! Each month, Writers Unite! will offer a writing prompt for writers to create and share a story with everyone. WU! wants to help our members and followers generate more traffic to their platforms. Please check out the authors’ blogs, websites, and Facebook pages and show them support. We would love to hear your thoughts about the stories and appreciate your support!
Vanished
D. A. Ratliff
I had come to despise fog.
Fog on the bridge to Cavanah Point didn’t creep in on “little cat feet,” as Carl Sandberg wrote, but arrived with a vengeance, sweeping across the bay below and enveloping the bridge in a thick gray cloud. It was a day like this one when Jason disappeared into the dense mist.
Driving across the bridge as fog rushed at me, I struggled to breathe. On sunny days, I could make the drive to see my parents without my chest tightening. On foggy days, the words of the man who drove onto the bridge behind Jason echoed in my head. My brother’s car disappeared into the thick haze, and a few minutes later, the driver found his silver SUV rental stopped in the lane, the door open, and Jason gone. He had vanished. The police concluded he must have jumped from the bridge, but despite an extensive search, divers never found his body. As my tires rolled onto the asphalt on the peninsula side, I drew a deep breath and wondered when the pain would go away.
My parents’ house sat on a bluff on the peninsula’s ocean side, with a spectacular view of the Pacific. The warm late-afternoon sun filtered through the trees, casting dappled shadows across the patio at the rear of the house. My parents, my sister Geri, and her husband, Ben, sat around the unlit fire pit. My two nieces, Olivia and Alexandria, chased each other around the yard, while my parents’ Golden Retriever followed. Their muffled voices grew louder as I approached.
“Daniel.” My mother, Rosalee, rose from her chair and rushed to me, her hug like a vise. She was a beautiful and vibrant woman at fifty-nine, but all you had to do was look into her eyes to see the haunting pain that lingered. She had carried that look from the moment we heard Jason was missing. She tried to be happy for my dad, Geri, me, and her grandchildren, but she didn’t fool us for a moment.
“Mom, you look gorgeous as always.”
“What a smooth lawyer you are. Sit for a bit. Dinner’s in the crockpot.”
I hugged my sister, then sat down. Dad poured a glass of Pinot Grigio and handed it to me. “I hear congratulations are in order. You got a promotion?”
“I wouldn’t call it a promotion. The US Attorney, Charles Winters, received a directive to form a cold-case unit to address unsolved criminal cases and clear as many as possible. DC believes there are too many unsolved cases. The unit will review old case files for evidence missed or overlooked when the cases were active. There are three assistant attorneys in the unit and a storage room full of files. Clay Furman, who joined the office about a month ago, and I are doing the initial scans. The others will take the first files we find and begin reviewing the evidence. Not sure if the unit will be permanent, but for now, I’ll be poring through a lot of dusty records.”
I steered the conversation to Geri’s newest art show, and Ben announced that a foundation had awarded him a fellowship in trauma and acute care at the hospital where he was completing his emergency medicine residency. I could hear my parents’ unspoken groans. They insisted that Geri and her family live with them while Ben was in med school. Although it felt never-ending, I knew it was good for Mom and Dad. Jason’s disappearance left a huge void, but the children’s laughter helped ease the hurt.
As I entered the kitchen, the aroma of Mom’s pot roast wafted toward me. We sat at the kitchen table, as we always did on Sunday evenings. We savored the pot roast, salad, and crusty bread, then homemade ice cream sundaes. While Ben helped my parents clear the table, I wandered into the family room, memories flooding in. The Sunday evening meal was the standard of my childhood, and I could hear Jason, Geri, and me squabbling over the last of whatever toppings Mom had set out for the sundaes.
I stopped in front of the family photo wall, all my attention drawn to Jason’s law school graduation photo. Jason Clark, Esq., looked like Dad, while Geri and I looked like our mother. He had Dad’s square jaw, a straight Greek nose, and the same gray eyes. His face told his story, that of a strong, intelligent, inquisitive, and kind man. I fought back tears, as I always did. If I didn’t, I would give in to raging grief, which would do none of us any good.
“I miss him, too.” Geri stood beside me, linked her arm in mine, and rested her head on my shoulder. “There are times when Livi stands with her hand on her hip, head cocked, explaining things to Alex, and I see Jason. It hurts more than I ever imagined.”
I pulled my sister closer and rested my nose against the top of her head. “I don’t think the hurt will ever go away, but we owe it to Jason to live our lives. That’s what he would want us to do.” She answered, her yes more of a garbled sob, and I knew the loss would never heal.
~~~
Clay leaned back in his chair, resting his hands on his head. “Whose idea was this?”
I took a sip of my once-warm coffee and shook my head. “Our fearless leaders. I’m beginning to think they’re right. I know we’ve only been reviewing these files for a week, but there are more cases than I expected that don’t appear to have been properly investigated.”
“Yeah, I noticed.” He leaned forward. “Dan, you’ve only been in the US Attorney’s office for two years, and two years before that as a Federal Court Clerk. You’ll find that not all career prosecutors in the DOJ ooze competence. Most do, but some political hacks get in, and some grow complacent. The workload can be overwhelming, and it takes a toll.”
“Growing up, I thought the FBI was the pinnacle of law enforcement. I even considered applying, but I ultimately decided to apply to the DOJ.”
Clay chuckled. “You’ve got the prosecutor’s bug. I had it too, and I don’t regret it.”
“I think I did, but I don’t want to get complacent. Off I go to get us hot coffee, then back at it.”
~~~
Five days later, my world changed.
Winters summoned us to a two p.m. meeting to review the cases we had identified so far. Shannon Parks and Jose Mercado, new assistant U.S. attorneys in the unit, had reviewed the evidence in the five selected cases, and together we had developed a plan to reopen them. Winters seemed pleased and ordered the cases reopened. Shannon and Jose were preparing a packet for the FBI, while Clay and I resumed reviewing additional files.
We decided to finish the last two boxes on the credenza in the conference room before leaving for the day. I started with the box that had only a few files, while Clay opened the second. Around five-thirty, Clay came across a file that left me stunned.
“Dan.”
I gazed at him over the file I held as a shiver of fear coursed through me. Clay’s voice was chilling. “What?”
“Your brother’s name… Is it Jason Patterson Clark?”
“Yes, why?” My heart pounded against my ribs, and my skin flushed hot.
“His name is in this file.” He slid the thin file across the table. “Read it. Don’t comment. As soon as you’re done, let’s get a drink.”
I read through the file, skimpy as it was, with mounting panic. Confusion set in, and I looked at Clay, who nodded toward the door. “Let’s go get that drink.” He slipped the file back into the box and turned off the conference room light as we left.
He suggested we meet at the Dauphin Restaurant and Lounge, an upscale place near the bay. It was six-thirty, too early for the regular patrons, so we had the bar to ourselves. We sat in two armchairs in the far corner, facing the door. It felt quite cloak-and-dagger to me.
A far too perky cocktail server took our drink order, and once she was out of earshot, I needed answers. “Clay, what is going on? I know the FBI joined the search for my brother, but the Sheriff’s office had the lead. The FBI only sent a search team. Why is there a file on him?’
He swept his hand toward the bar, and I saw the server returning. “Wait until our drinks arrive.”
I gulped down a slug of Maker’s Mark, the bourbon warming my throat, then set the glass down with a thud. “Tell me what’s going on.”
“I recognized a name in that report. I worked in the Office of International Affairs, part of the DOJ’s Criminal Division, which monitors overseas operations and legal matters at the CIA, until I transferred here.”
“Are you implying the CIA is involved in Jason’s disappearance?”
Clay shook his head. “All I can say is that when Roger Farmington’s name is on a case file, I don’t know what else it could be. Farmington is a big deal in the CIA’s planning of covert missions. Last I heard before I left the OIA, he was working on operations in South America targeting drug cartels.”
“I don’t understand. Jason joined an international law firm right out of college and handled major cases overseas.”
“There are a lot of cover stories out there. That might have been one of them.” He downed the rest of his Manhattan and signaled for another round. “Tell me about Jason. What did he study in college, and how did he end up at that law firm?”
With a second round of drinks before us, I told him about Jason. “Jason was brilliant, and his teachers recognized a significant talent for computer science. There wasn’t anything he couldn’t program or build, whether hardware or software. His math scores were off the charts, and by fourteen he was taking college-level classes in anything related to computers. At eighteen, he entered college with enough credits for a BS in computer science. He only had to take the required general courses, and as soon as he had those out of the way, he went on to a master’s degree. We expected him to go straight to Silicon Valley, but he shocked us by saying he was going to law school. It was no surprise that he graduated Summa Cum Laude and at the top of his class.”
“Impressive credentials. You say he joined the firm in DC right after college?”
I could only nod. I felt overwhelmed by it all.
“Dan, there is something amiss here. I need you to trust me. Can you do that?”
Clay joined the US Attorney’s Office a month ago. I had worked with him on one straightforward case that we quickly cleared before Winters assigned us to the cold case unit. I liked him, thought he was ethical, and had to trust him. Something was amiss, as he said, and Jason was involved. Besides, I didn’t have anyone else to trust.
“Yes, I can do that.”
“I need you to keep the discovery of that file to yourself for now. Don’t talk to anyone, not even family or friends—only me. And we only talk about this outside the Federal building. If anyone asks you about this file, say you know nothing. Got it?”
“I do.”
“Good. You need to give me some time to look into a few things. It could be a day or a week, but I will get back to you as soon as I have any information.”
A sip of bourbon settled my nerves as I watched Clay’s taillights fade into the darkness. My thoughts spun like that Tasmanian Devil from the cartoons, and fear crept into my bones. What if Jason hadn’t committed suicide? What had my brother been involved in?
~~~
I decided I was a better actor than I had expected to be. How I managed to get through the next several days, acting as if nothing were going on, surprised me. The weekend was tough. I had a date on Friday night with a gal I met at the gym, but I canceled because I knew I wouldn’t be my witty self, not that I ever was. Olivia’s birthday was on Saturday, and since Ben had a shift at the ER, it was Uncle Dan to the rescue—morning at the zoo, afternoon at the nature museum, dinner, and cake at home. Did I enjoy the day? I did, but I felt uneasy around my family, hiding information about Jason. It was my sister who noticed my unease. She was the empath, always sensing when something troubled both Jason and me. After Olivia blew out the candles and Mom served cake, I retreated to the den with my slice. I wasn’t surprised that Geri followed me.
I smiled. “Great day. Olivia had fun.”
Geri plopped onto the couch beside me. “She did. I’m exhausted.”
I sighed inwardly. My sister is far too observant. I didn’t like lying to her, but I did anyway. “We’re up to our necks in cold cases, more than we ever expected. We already have twelve to send to the FBI to reopen, and there are still many more to review. We’ve been burning the proverbial midnight oil.”
The look in her eyes told me she didn’t believe me, but she let it go for now. “Please rest tomorrow, will you?”
“Yes, ma’am, no plans. Home, pizza, and baseball.”
~~~
Nothing changed at the office until Wednesday. As we were leaving for the day, Clay stopped me in the parking garage. He kept his voice low and his words cryptic. “I’ll be out of the office for the rest of the week. I may contact you. If I do, follow my instructions.” He walked away without another word, leaving me more confused than ever.
The next two days were busy as the unit met with FBI agents to review the first two cases for possible reopening. We started with capital crimes and cases closest to the statute of limitations. I left the office on Friday feeling good about our work. As I pulled into my condo garage, Clay texted me.
You are booked on the 10:30 red-eye to DC. A car will be waiting. Follow the driver’s instructions. Your cover is that you are working on a DOJ project. You will return to SF on Sunday.
I stared at the garage wall, trying to make sense of what was happening. I don’t like being in the dark, and all this covert idiocy was making me angry. Patience has never been my strong suit, but I’ve learned to curb my urge to rush things. Not this time. This time it was about my brother, and I wanted answers.
~~~
The plane landed just before seven a.m. on a rainy, dreary morning. I found the driver holding a placard with my name, and I was surprised when he dropped me off at the Hay-Adams. He said he would return for me at noon and that I should not have lunch.
But I could have breakfast. I showered, ordered room service, and while I waited, I texted Mom to say I had arrived. I told her I would be in meetings all afternoon and that my phone would be off. After breakfast, I set an alarm for eleven and went to sleep.
The driver returned promptly at noon, and I expected we were going to the DOJ building. We were not. The car headed west on I Street, away from the Department of Justice.
“Where are we going?”
“To Langley, sir.”
Langley. The CIA. Maybe Clay was right. Jason was involved with the CIA.
My heart felt heavy in my chest as a chill ran through me. I dreaded what I might hear.
~~~
My pulse quickened as I entered the iconic CIA lobby. I don’t believe anyone could walk across the marble-inlaid CIA motif without feeling the specter of James Bond in the air.
Clay was waiting for me and escorted me through security. Once we were out of the guards’ hearing range, I stopped him. “Why here? What does the CIA have to do with Jason?”
“I promise, Dan, we’re going to tell you everything. Come with me.” He headed toward the elevators.
The outer office was well appointed, but no one was at the desk on Saturday afternoon. We entered a spacious inner office with a conference table set for lunch. A man sat at the head of the table, typing on a tablet. He rose as we entered.
Clay made the introductions. “Dan, this is Roger Farmington, Deputy Director of Operations for South and Central America. Roger, Daniel Clark, Assistant US Attorney, Northern California District.”
As we shook hands, Roger’s deep voice filled the room. “Please sit, Dan, if I may call you that.”
“Certainly, sir.”
“And I’m Roger. I know this is very last-minute, and I’m certain you have many questions. I ordered lunch for us. My granddaughter had a soccer game this morning, so there was no time to stop anywhere.”
He tapped his phone screen, and a steward appeared with a cart and lunch. I lost my appetite when I realized we were heading to Langley, but I took a club sandwich and potato salad to be polite. Then I waited.
Roger took a bite of his sandwich before speaking again. “Dan, as a US Attorney, you hold a high-level security clearance, and I need to remind you of it before we continue.”
“I understand that anything I hear today is classified.”
“Good.” He continued eating, speaking between bites. “First, let me tell you that Clay works for the Office of International Affairs, which liaises with the CIA. On our request, DOJ sent him to the San Francisco district office. But before we explain his involvement, let me tell you about your brother.”
“Please.” I meant it more as a command than as a pleasantry.
“The CIA is constantly recruiting the best and the brightest we can find. Jason’s expertise in cybertechnology came to our attention while he was still in high school. We didn’t approach him until he had completed his bachelor’s degree and was in his master’s program, at age twenty. We invited him to join our cyber unit and also put him through law school. We like our employees to be well-versed in the law and experienced in the demands and pressures of law school. It’s great training. He agreed.”
“The international law firm was a cover?”
“Yes. However, Jason wasn’t a covert operative until a few years later. He did travel, but he worked out of field offices. He became a covert operative when we needed someone physically present at a target’s location. He volunteered to go and we gave him a crash course in covert skills. He performed the job exceptionally well and continued to operate as an agent, often in clandestine assignments.”
“You mean a spy?”
“Yes. The last operation he was on was deep undercover, and it took extensive preparation to set him up with a background that fit our needs. We’re investigating a cartel member, Hernando Restrepo, in Colombia, who wanted to diversify his operation because drug trade volume had dropped. He decided that cybercrime was the wave of the future. He put out word on the dark web seeking an IT expert. Jason was the perfect candidate. He contacted Restrepo and joined the cartel.”
“As he became more deeply involved in the operation, he noticed that much of the drug traffic was routed through Northern California, and that whenever federal drug crimes were committed, many of those cases were dismissed or pled out with no time served. He became suspicious, dug deeper, and a name surfaced. That name is why we asked for Clay’s assignment to the San Francisco office.”
The hair on the back of my neck bristled as realization crept in. “Charles Winters.”
Clay nodded. “Yes, Jason traced contacts between Winters and Restrepo and followed the money trail. Winters is growing quite wealthy from this arrangement.”
“I don’t understand.” I shrugged. “How did he cover this up internally? I never worked on a case he intervened in.”
“Exactly, Dan. I’ve been there for almost two months, and I think he was either assigning or moving cases to incompetent prosecutors, or he is paying them off. We are investigating three likely candidates, but because this is an ongoing operation, we need to keep it under wraps. I was very cryptic about my role when we met at the Dauphin, but I needed to maintain cover until we had more information.”
I had picked up a sandwich section, then dropped it. “Are you telling me that Winters might have been involved in Jason’s…” I couldn’t finish the sentence. Silence met my question as Roger and Clay exchanged glances. Roger answered.
“Jason became worried about you being in the office with Winters. Let me say this now. No one, absolutely no one, suspects you of any involvement. But unexpectedly, Winters came to Restrepo’s villa, and Restrepo introduced Jason to him. Jason convinced Restrepo that he needed to go to a company in Silicon Valley, where he had a buddy who would set him up with components for the super server he was building, but only accepted cash. Believing Jason could do no wrong, Restrepo approved and gave him access to all the cash he would need.”
I gazed at the rain pelting the window, speaking without addressing anyone. “Jason came to protect me.” I turned to Rodger. “What happened to my brother?”
Clay’s voice dropped as he answered me. “Do you have a photo of Jason in your office?”
“No.” But I realized he meant whether anyone had seen a photo of him. “Oh… When I got the call from Mom that Jason was coming home, Sandy Adams and I were working on motion briefs. I hadn’t seen him in nearly two years, and she noticed how happy I was. Sandy asked if I had a picture of him, and I did, on my phone. I pulled up the photo just as Winters walked up behind me.” I paused as it sank in. “I led him to my brother.”
“Did he ask you questions about Jason?”
“Yes. How long was he in town? He bet my parents were happy he was home. That kind of thing.”
‘When was this?”
“Two days before he disappeared.” As I spoke those words, my muscles twitched with anger as it welled up inside me.
Clay must have noticed. “Dan, please stay calm. We have some news.”
“What news? That the man I work for may have had my brother killed?”
Roger spoke. “We have no proof yet, but we think Jason may still be alive.”
His words left me speechless. I stared at him and finally managed to repeat his words. “Jason may be alive?”
“Yes. We also looked for Jason after he disappeared, but we had no luck. We spoke with the driver, Marvin Briscoe, who found Jason’s car abandoned. He was behind Jason, but not that close. As he approached the bridge, a car pulled out in front of him from a side road and stopped. He stopped to help the young female driver. She said her car had been acting up and that she was heading to an auto shop. She also said her father was right behind her. She asked if he would help push her car onto the shoulder. He did, then waited until her father arrived, less than a minute later. He continued onto the bridge and found Jason’s car abandoned.”
“How does that prove Jason is alive?”
“We pulled satellite imagery of the area, and it’s telling. The car that intercepted Briscoe parked alongside the ‘father’s’ car on the side road, while another car parked about a half mile from the bridge. We think that car was a lookout, directing the other cars to keep traffic from following Jason onto the bridge. Two cars had blocked Jason’s car on the bridge, and another car had parked along the road leading off the bridge. The two cars on the bridge took the longer road off the peninsula. We followed them until they were out of the satellite’s range.”
“What are you doing to find him?”
“Everything we can.”
“Something I don’t understand, Roger. How did the file with your name and Jason’s end up in a box of cold case files?”
“An excellent question, and one we would like to know. The pages in that file were copies of a few pages from the original file, which remains here. We suspect a mole, someone on Restrepo’s payroll. That would explain some of the obstacles we’ve encountered in our investigation of his cartel. Believe me, we are trying to identify who copied the documents. As for how it ended up in the box in your office…” Roger nodded toward Clay, who continued.
“We can rule out Winter planting it in the box. I don’t think the man is that foolish. The only conclusion is that someone deliberately placed it in the box to be found.”
I took a deep breath, trying to process what I had learned. I wanted to believe my brother was alive, but I was pragmatic. If Restrepo discovered Jason was CIA, he would likely have executed him. I couldn’t allow myself to believe he was alive, yet I clung to a tiny glimmer of hope. I had questions, and it was time to get answers.
“Gentlemen, you brought me here for a reason. I don’t think it was to enlighten me about Restrepo or to tell me you believe my brother is alive. I’d like to know what you want from me.”
The two men exchanged resigned looks. Roger bit his lower lip. “You are perceptive, but I wouldn’t expect less from Jason’s brother. Yes, there is something we need from you. We need you to find out who placed the file there for you to find. That person must know about Winters’ involvement with Restrepo and could help us build a stronger case against him.”
“I’m not my brother. I don’t know if I can be a spy.”
Roger chuckled. “I have a feeling you’re a better spy than you think. We don’t want you to take any chances, so be very careful around Winters. He may be wary of you because he doesn’t know what you know.”
Roger walked me through a crash course on Restrepo’s cartel and on what they knew about the cybercrime he was interested in. After he left, Clay asked me to review the personnel files of all employees in the San Francisco office, saying it would help me identify the person we were looking for.
Looking through my colleagues’ personal data, background checks, and financial records disturbed me. I felt uncomfortable in my own skin, as the role of a voyeur was never an aspiration. The good news was that there was no indication anyone in the office was receiving large sums of unaccounted-for money.
Around seven p.m., Clay said he had to get home to his family. I must have looked quizzical, because he chuckled. “My time in San Francisco isn’t permanent. My wife and kids are here in DC. I didn’t tell anyone because it wasn’t pertinent to my assignment there.” He rose. “I’ll drive you back to the hotel. Remember, all expenses are paid, so have a nice dinner at the hotel.”
“Why the Hay-Adams? That place is pricey.”
Clay grinned. “The CIA keeps rooms there.”
“Nice budget.”
“They can afford it. The CIA has more money than the Vatican.”
~~~~
I tossed the last file from the final box onto the conference table and leaned back in the soft leather chair. We uncovered twenty-six cases that required immediate review, seven of which dated to the past two years. Clay thinks the seven cases are ones Winters may have interfered with, and he is waiting to see the US Attorney’s response when we present them to him.
Nearly a month has passed since I was in DC, and I spent that time trying to find out who planted the file. I am not the kind of guy who goes with the crowd after work for a drink. However, not socializing after work kept me from getting to know my colleagues well, so I decided to join in.
Other than missing a few evenings at the gym, I didn’t learn much, but I did find out that some interesting people were working in the office. All employees’ financial dealings continued to be monitored, and thankfully, there was no change. If money wasn’t the motivation, then something else was, leaving revenge or ethics and morals as the reason.
I decided to focus on the people closest to Winters. When he transferred from the Sacramento office to San Francisco, he brought his executive assistant, Carol Lombardy; an administrative assistant, Sharon Cline; and a law clerk, Parker Watson, who is now an attorney on staff.
I had a private passcode to access employee data, and I reviewed what was on file for each employee. Again, no signs of unusual banking transactions, large purchases, or fancy trips, which was puzzling. Maybe I was following the wrong instincts, but I was running out of options. Someone had planted that file, and I had to find out who.
Friday night, I was invited to a colleague’s birthday party and decided to go, mainly because it was at my favorite Italian restaurant in San Francisco. I walked into Fior D’ Italia, my stomach yearning for the Lasagne Bolognese Al Forno. The party was in a private room, and though there were a few empty seats, I sat next to Sharon Cline, Winters’ administrative assistant. Perhaps I could learn something from her. About halfway through the meal, I realized I might have sent the wrong signal by sitting next to her. Sharon was known for stalking unmarried attorneys.
It was during dessert that she confirmed my suspicion. Sharon slid her hand onto my thigh. I fought not to overreact, but I smiled and lied. “A nice idea, Sharon, but I’m involved with someone.”
She sighed, gave me a sideways glance, and took a sip of wine. “Worth a try. I had a feeling you were taken. The hot ones always are.”
I felt uncomfortable being called hot, but I could live with it. “How long have you been working with Winters?”
“I started in Sacramento about three months before he was appointed US Attorney for this district. Carol was a friend of my mom’s and got me the job. I asked to come along, and I got to. Love it here.”
“Good. You do a great job.”
“Thanks.”
The party was winding down, and as we got up to leave, Sharon suggested we go for a drink. “Friends only. I’m not ready to go home yet.”
“A drink it is.”
We decided to go for the best and took an Uber to Top of the Mark, San Francisco’s most iconic bar. Sharon grinned as we sat at a window table. The Transamerica Pyramid, lit against the dark sky, loomed in the view. We ordered a drink and watched wispy fog swirl around the tall monuments to commerce.
“The fog is so beautiful.” Sharon turned toward me, her face paling. “Oh, I’m sorry. I forgot. Carol told me your brother disappeared in the fog on a bridge. I shouldn’t…”
“It’s all right. The fog up here is amazing, one of the things I love about this bar.”
She sipped the Cosmo she ordered, and I noticed her hands shake.
“Are you okay?”
“I forgot you’re a lawyer for a second. Perceptive is a lawyer’s middle name.”
“We’ve been called that, among other things. I don’t mean to pry, but you seem on edge.”
“I shouldn’t talk out of school. She ran her fingers through her hair. “But something’s wrong.”
I didn’t say anything. She needed to tell me in her own way.
“Carol has always been like a mother to me. I don’t think she always liked my behavior, but she has always been there for me. Over the past several months, something has changed.”
“Something personal?”
“No, I don’t think so. Everything seems fine there, but she has distanced herself from me at the office. Not as friendly, and her relationship with Chuck has changed. They were so tight they could finish each other’s sentences.” She scoffed. “The proverbial work wife, but that has changed. And then Chuck changed.”
“How?”
“You know, he got divorced a couple of years ago. Carol took it hard. She and Madeline were close, and after that, things changed. Chuck changed, too. He became more arrogant and less tolerant. Well, I was at the 49 Club a few weeks ago. It’s a trendy bar known for its back room, where private members are said to have access to drugs and, well, anything else they want. We only went because of the band and stayed for one set, but while I was there, Chuck and his Colombian paramour showed up and went into the private room. That’s not where the Chuck I used to know would go.”
A realization swept over me. The file had to come from Carol, but why? I imagined she knew something, and that something might involve Jason. “What do you think is wrong?”
Her shoulders slumped. “There’s a rift between them, but I don’t think Chuck realizes it. He’s so wrapped up in his own life that he’s not paying attention. To be honest, I don’t know.”
We finished our drinks, and Sharon decided to stay overnight in the city with a friend. I ordered an Uber for her and another for me back to the office to get my car. On the drive home, I decided it was time to talk to Carol.
~~~
I found Carol’s address in the personnel files and decided to show up without calling first. I needed the element of surprise. Her house was a pale blue Victorian in the Noe Valley community.
It was nine a.m., a reasonable hour, and I didn’t want to wait. I pressed the doorbell. Carol opened the door, her eyes widened, and she smiled, though her rigid jaw betrayed her nervousness.
“I was expecting you. Please come in.”
She led me down the hall to a bright, spacious kitchen and family room. She introduced her husband, Gavin, who had a plate of pancakes in front of him. He shook my hand and nodded at Carol. “Get this man a plate of pancakes.”
I started to protest, but the pancakes and bacon smelled too good. Carol fixed a plate for me, and Gavin handed me a cup of coffee. Carol sat across from me.
“I know why you’re here, and yes, I put the file in the cold case boxes.” She glanced at her husband. “Gavin knows everything. In fact, he convinced me I had to do something.”
I took a bite of the pancakes to keep my hands busy and to hide my nervousness.
“These pancakes are great.” I set my fork down. “Carol, what do you know about my brother?”
“Nothing more than what I saw in the file.” She exhaled. “Best to start at the beginning. Sharon and I transferred here with Chuck when he was named U.S. Attorney. The first three years were like those we had working with him in Sacramento. He cared about his family and his job. He was fair and honest, and I was proud to work for him. Then, two years ago, he went to Colombia on a Department of Justice trip to meet with Colombian prosecutors. He came back a different man.”
“How was he different?”
“Impatient, irritable, and no more small talk with people in the office. What had been an empathetic man became distant and uncaring. Within two months of his trip, he shocked everyone by divorcing Madeline. I became friends with Madeline, and I have never seen anyone so devastated. Her daughter came and took her to Tampa. She won’t talk to me now because I kept working for Chuck.”
“What do you think changed him?”
“That woman, that haughty woman who never speaks to anyone, is a member of a wealthy family in Colombia. Money doesn’t buy class.”
Gavin pressed her. “Tell Dan why you became suspicious of Chuck.”
“Oh, yes… Chuck, as you know, was usually hands-on only when the case was high profile or very serious. But he started getting involved in smaller cases, most of which were pled out almost immediately. I started seeing more of his directing cases against drug dealers on lower federal charges, including lesser money laundering charges such as structuring, illegal money transmission, and tax evasion involving illicit funds. I started looking closer. I found three different attorneys, not all in our office but in other regional offices, who were reducing charges and, in some cases, outright dismissing the cases. Dan, I know the law after all this time, twenty-eight years as a legal assistant. These were solid cases.”
“Do you think he was doing this at someone’s request?”
“I didn’t want to think so, but when he started dressing in more expensive clothes and is now wearing a platinum Rolex watch, I have to believe he’s getting money from somewhere.”
“When did you find the file containing my brother’s name?”
“About two weeks before the cold case unit began working, Chuck had attended a meeting with local law enforcement and left an important folder behind. He couldn’t remember which drawer he’d put it in. I rummaged through his desk and found an unlabeled file. I thought it might be the file I was looking for—it wasn’t. I couldn’t fathom why he had any information about your brother. My gut told me something was very wrong. I decided to copy the documents and put the original file back in his desk. I brought the file home and talked it over with Gavin. Given the changes in his demeanor, the cases he was interfering with, and now a file with your missing brother’s name, we knew I should do something. When the cold case unit started, I sneaked in early one morning before anyone else arrived and placed the file in the box, hoping you would find it.”
I took a sip of coffee, giving myself time to gather my thoughts. I couldn’t tell her what I knew, but I needed to ask how far she was willing to go to help us.
“Carol, what’s been happening hasn’t gone unnoticed. We need your help. Are you willing to speak with the FBI about what you know?”
She glanced at her husband, then at me. “Yes, I knew from the moment he divorced Madeline that he was involved in illegal activity. I recorded all the cases I reviewed. I have proof, at least, that he was directing those cases.”
“I know it isn’t easy being at work with this looming. Are you comfortable keeping things as they are until it’s resolved?”
“I have so far. I can do it.”
~~~
The next few days were a total grind for me. Focusing was difficult as my mind kept drifting to worries about Jason and whether he was alive. Not knowing and keeping it from my parents and Geri was taking a toll. Sleep was elusive, and my patience was wearing thin.
I had passed along everything I had learned from Carol to Clay, who, in turn, contacted the FBI at Roger’s direction. Carol and I exchanged pleasantries as we passed, but it was best not to seem to be having a conversation. I had no idea whether the FBI had questioned her. I sensed that when the FBI was ready to swoop in and arrest Winters, I would be as surprised as anyone.
Three weeks later, I was blindsided again. Around four p.m. on Friday, Clay texted me. Meet me at the Dauphin at six. I drew such a deep breath that jagged pain shot through my chest. He had to have information about Jason. I prayed it would be good, but I feared it would not be.
The minutes crept by like Sandberg’s cat’s-paw fog. When I was finally on my way, I fought back the bile rising in my throat. If I found out Jason was dead, it would feel like losing him all over again.
Clay was already there, along with a man I didn’t know. “Dan, this is Ben Smith. Let’s just say he works for the government.”
“Dan, good to meet you.”
I was impatient. “What’s going on?”
Clay gestured toward a chair. “Sit. I ordered a drink for you.”
I sat, afraid to pick up the drink because my hands were trembling. “Clay, just tell me.”
I hadn’t noticed the file lying on the table. Ben picked it up, removed a photo, then handed it to me. “Do you recognize this man?”
Adrenaline flooded my body. My focus, which had been lax, sharpened. My breathing grew ragged, and my heart pounded. “This is Jason.” I swallowed. “When was this taken?”
“Two days ago.”
I downed the bourbon in front of me, pushed back tears, and stayed as stoic as I could. Jason was gaunt, his head shaved, and pale. My heart was bursting with joy and broken at the same time. “Where is he?”
Ben answered. “Restrepo has a compound called Casa Rafela, about 10 miles north of Cartagena. It’s well protected when Restrepo is there, but he is currently at his villa in Marbella, Spain. There are only a few guards at the compound at the moment.”
I caught his gaze. “Are you telling me you plan to rescue him?”
Clay intervened. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Let them gather the intel they need, then decide whether it’s safe to go in. The last thing we want is for him to get hurt now.”
“Dan, at least we know your brother is alive. I promise you we will get him out, but we need more intel. We decided to tell you so you could identify him, but it would be best if you didn’t tell anyone he’s alive yet.”
From their intense expressions, I had to believe these men were telling the truth. Not telling my parents and Geri was a heavy burden, but one I had to carry for now.
~~~
Sleep proved as elusive as it had been for weeks. Restless, I gave up at three a.m. and headed to the living room for a drink. I opened the balcony doors and plopped into a lounge chair, watching the city lights stretch toward the bay. The smooth bourbon did little to soothe me. My brother was alive, and I couldn’t help him. I needed to help him.
I closed my eyes, focusing on the sirens, so common in the city, trying to clear my mind, but with no luck. I had to do something. I sat up. I could do something. I could go to Cartagena.
I booked a flight for eleven p.m. Saturday night, then messaged the office to say I had an emergency and would return in a few days. Not a real issue, since I wasn’t actively working on current cases. I went to bed, but the image of Jason, so thin and pale, burned into my brain, making sleep elusive.
On Saturday, I ran a few quick errands to the bank for cash, bought a new carry-on, and headed home to pack. About halfway through, I realized I only needed a whip and Indiana Jones’ hat. I chuckled. I wasn’t a spy or an adventurer. I wasn’t sure what I was thinking, but I had to get to my brother. I debated seeing my parents before I left, but I knew I had to. Mom insisted I stay for dinner. Pizza was the girls’ choice, so Dad and I drove to pick up the order.
On the way back, he asked the question I didn’t want to answer. “You seem preoccupied. What’s going on? Is it about going back to D.C. again?”
“No, just a lot of work. We were surprised to find so many cases that had not been properly investigated.”
“What kind of cases? All kinds?”
“A bit, but a lot of drug cases. It seemed to be a pattern.” I might as well foreshadow what was coming. That seemed to satisfy him, and we talked about his latest pickleball match for the rest of the way home.
As I left for the airport, Geri walked with me to the car. “I get the feeling something is going on that you don’t want to tell us.” She hugged me. “Whatever you’re doing, I’m with you.”
She always knows.
~~~
A cross-country flight, customs at an overcrowded Miami airport, and another flight brought me to Cartagena at midday. I cashed in some frequent flier miles and reserved a room at the Hilton on the beach. A shower, some food, and a few hours’ sleep helped, and I headed downstairs to rent a car and have dinner. I sat by the water, wondering how foolish I was to think I could free Jason. I hadn’t thought about how to get him out of the country. I’d have to take him to the US Embassy.
I might be on a fool’s errand, but I wanted my brother home.
~~~
Thank goodness for GPS. My Spanish was rudimentary, and all I could do was follow the little blue line to my destination. I checked Street View, which offered a bit of information, but not much. Restrepo’s villa sat at the end of a long, steep drive. I drove past, then turned around, looking for a place to park off-road and hike to the compound.
I found a worn path on the south side of the compound. About halfway up the steep hill, I was grateful for my gym membership. By the time I reached the compound wall, I was winded, more than I expected to be. I also felt my rage building.
When I was a child, I had trouble keeping my temper. I let small things escalate and lose control. Jason taught me how to manage that urge and not give in to anger. I still fight to squash those feelings, but I refuse to give in to anger. That wouldn’t help Jason.
I stayed close to the wall, trying to avoid any cameras. I couldn’t see any from the path, but that didn’t mean they weren’t there. I walked along a long stretch of concrete wall before I found a gate. It was made of rough-hewn planks, and I could see through the gaps. I could make out a large structure a short distance away, though I had no idea what it was. I shifted left for a better angle when, out of nowhere, a hand roughly covered my mouth, and my right arm was pinned behind my back.
A deep voice whispered in my ear. “Clark, don’t panic. Ben sent us. I’m going to cover your mouth. Don’t make a sound, or they’ll hear us.”
Another man stood behind him, and together they hustled me toward a clump of trees and scrub brush. Then they let me go.
My heart pounded in my chest. “Who are you?”
“I’m Jackson, and this is Roman.”
Jackson looked like a high school baseball coach, but I knew looks could be deceiving. Roman had to have been an offensive lineman in a past life. “How did you know I was here?”
“Clay Furman asked Ben to keep an eye on your movements. We knew when you bought a plane ticket.”
“You were spying on me?”
Jackson laughed. “Yeah, that’s our job.”
“Is my brother in there?”
“Yes. We caught sight of him this morning. They let him outside for a few minutes each morning and afternoon. We are here to get him out. Other operatives surround the compound. With only four guards here, this is our best chance.”
“I’m coming with you.”
“No, you’re not. You wait here.” Jackson clicked on the radio in his tactical vest. “Report.”
One by one, low voices floated through the air, reporting they were ready. My senses heightened, and each breath I took roared in my ears. My brother was alive and inside that compound. They weren’t keeping me out.
Roman approached the gate with a miniature camera mounted on a flexible tube. He looked inside the compound and gave Jackson a thumbs-up. Jackson whispered “Go” into his mic, and Roman threw a grappling hook with a rope attached over the wall, then scurried up. He dropped to the other side, pulled the gate’s bolt, and swung it open. Jackson rushed in, his automatic weapon pointed skyward. I ran in behind him.
It took him a minute to realize I was there. He rolled his eyes, then motioned for me to follow. “Listen, you stick close to me, and if shooting starts, drop to the ground.”
I nodded. My fight-or-flight instinct was teetering toward flight, but I couldn’t. I had to go.
A muffled shot rang out from across the compound as one of Restrepo’s guards ran out of a door in front of us. Roman took him down with a rifle butt to the face, then quickly zip-tied his hands and feet. He ducked into the building, looked around, and called out clear. Jackson went inside, and I followed.
His radio crackled. “Jack, two guards down.”
“Good. One down here.”
My voice cracked as I spoke. “Do you know where he is?”
“Intel says the basement. The entrance is in the next building.” He radioed the others. “Keep watch. We’re going for the target.”
The next building had an internet receiver mounted on the roof, and heavy-duty power lines disappeared into it. Roman knocked the padlock off the door with his rifle, and we entered. The room was lined with computer monitors, and as I glanced around, my gaze fell on a screen that stopped my heart. A security camera. My brother was on the screen. I fought back sobs. Time for that later.
He wasn’t alone. A guard stood in the room. Roman turned to Jackson. “You’re up, Señor.”
Jackson opened a door to a staircase and descended out of sight, Roman following. I heard him knock on a door, then speak in Spanish. My high school Spanish was failing me, but I think he said something about food. I checked the security monitor and saw the guard walking out of camera range. A door creaked, someone shouted, then silence. I held my breath until Roman’s voice made me gasp.
“Get down here, Clark.”
I wasted no time. As I reached the door, I saw Jason, thin and pale, but he was smiling. When he saw me, he grinned. “Well, little brother, didn’t expect to see you here.” I couldn’t speak. I rushed to him and hugged him as hard as I could without hurting him. He pulled away first. “I have a feeling this is going to be an interesting story.”
He turned to Jackson. “Good to see you, man.”
“You, too, but we need to go.”
“Not yet.” Jason sat in front of a large monitor. “I back up this data continually. Let me finish this last file.” A minute later, he unplugged two external hard drives and held them up. “Everything you will ever want to know about Restrepo and his cartel. I also planted a virus in the system. I need to activate it.” He entered a code, and the screen began to distort. He turned toward Jackson. “Now we can go.”
Roman picked up the guard while Jackson took the hard drives from Jason. We headed for the gate we had entered through. The other guards had been taken outside the gate and down the hill. Roman dropped the guard he was carrying next to the others.
Jason laughed at the barely conscious guards, who had been carried to safety. “Shouldn’t have bothered with the virus?”
“No. The Colombian Air Force is going to take care of the computers.”
Jason stumbled, and I grabbed him around the waist. “Let’s go home.”
~~~
The next seventy-two hours were a blur. We were flown to Washington on a private jet, where Jason underwent a full medical exam, received treatment for minor issues, and began his debrief. Roger allowed me to contact my parents and Geri via Zoom to tell them Jason was alive. I am not sure who cried harder. Roger arranged for them to fly to DC to be with him.
It was quite the reunion, and I was reluctant to leave, but I wasn’t about to miss what came next.
I walked into the U.S. Attorney’s office on Thursday morning, a bit on edge, but I tried not to show it. I was pouring coffee in the break room when Carol walked in. From the resigned look in her eyes, I was certain she expected what was coming. Neither of us knew when.
The FBI arrived at ten a.m. that morning and arrested Charles Winters on drug trafficking, bribery, honest services fraud, conspiracy, obstruction of justice, and other related charges. Winters paled and refused to make eye contact with anyone in the office. At the same time, one attorney in our office and two others in field offices were arrested.
The shock lingered for days. An acting U.S. Attorney arrived from Washington and began restoring order in the office. Clay agreed to stay to continue locating cases that had been closed due to Winters’ intervention. When he returned from D.C., he told me that the Colombian woman Winters was involved with was a cousin of Restrepo’s, assigned to keep an eye on him until he became a liability. I asked about the mole at Langley. Clay said the mole had been caught and that was all he knew.
Jason came home for an extended visit, but the story was that the cartel had kidnapped him for his IT skills. He planned to return to his ‘law firm’ after he recovered.
Two months later, I was driving across the bridge as fog rolled in, and the heaviness in my heart had lifted. I was on my way to Friday night pizza and a movie with my family. What more could I ask for? I knew. I had felt restless since walking into CIA headquarters.
My phone buzzed, and my heart skipped at the caller ID. Langley. I pressed the green button.
Welcome to Write the Story! Each month, Writers Unite! will offer a writing prompt for writers to create and share a story with everyone. WU! wants to help our members and followers generate more traffic to their platforms. Please check out the authors’ blogs, websites, and Facebook pages and show them support. We would love to hear your thoughts about the stories and appreciate your support!
The Snowman
Tanja Cillia
He appeared on a night when the snow finally got it right.
Not the thin, apologetic flakes that vanish on contact, not the dry powder that squeaks beneath boots and refuses to cling to itself… but the heavy, breathing kind. Four inches at least. Wet. Willing. The sort of snow experts talk about with authority, the sort that knows how to hold a shape.
No one saw him being made.
One evening the park was empty except for the trees, their branches stitched with frost, and the amber streetlights humming softly to themselves. The next morning, there he was. A snowman standing just off the path, slightly crooked, twig arms spread as if he’d been interrupted mid-sentence. Coal buttons. Carrot nose. A round head tilted in thought. He looked less like a decoration and more like a decision.
People stopped.
They took pictures. They circled him, looking for footprints, for evidence of hands, gloves, a trail of intention. There was nothing. The snow around him was smooth, untouched, as though he had risen straight out of the ground.
“Who made you?” someone asked, half-joking, half-uneasy.
“I did,” the snowman said pleasantly.
Phones dropped. Someone laughed too loudly. Another person swore.
“I mean,” the snowman added, “the snow did most of the work.”
He could hear them, he explained. Sound travelled strangely through snow… muted but intimate, like a secret pressed into the ear of the world. He had been listening long before anyone noticed him. Listening to boots crunch, to distant traffic, to the soft complaints of winter.
Children approached first. They always did. They asked him questions that mattered.
“Do you melt?”
“Yes.”
“Are you cold?”
“No.”
“Do you know Santa?”
“I know of him,” the snowman said. “We move in similar seasons.”
Adults came closer once the fear loosened its grip. Someone whispered that there had to be a speaker inside him. A prank. An art installation. A radio buried in his belly.
“That would explain it,” a man said, relieved.
“Would it?” the snowman replied.
They argued quietly, as if he couldn’t hear. Someone tapped his side. Another knocked harder, listening for the hollow truth of machinery. The snowman stayed still, smiling with the patience of something that had nowhere else to be.
To pass the time, he told jokes.
“What do you get when you cross a vampire and a snowman?” he asked.
“What type of candle burns longer?” he continued. “None, they all burn shorter!”
By then, a small crowd had gathered. The air felt charged, brittle with disbelief. He went on.
“What do you get if Santa comes down your chimney when the fire is ablaze? Crisp Kringle.”
A woman shook her head, smiling despite herself.
“What is the difference between the Christmas alphabet and the ordinary alphabet?” the snowman asked, eyes bright. “The Christmas alphabet has No L (Noel).”
The jokes were bad. That was the point. They were comforting in their predictability, like traditions that survive not because they’re good, but because they’re familiar.
Still, the idea of a talking snowman made people restless.
“If there’s a radio,” someone said, “we’ll find it.”
They pushed.
Snow gives way easily when you don’t want it to stay. The snowman fell apart without protest; head rolling gently to one side, body collapsing into itself, arms dropping like discarded thoughts. Coal buttons disappeared into the white.
They dug. They searched. Gloves scraped through slush and silence.
There was nothing.
No wires. No speaker. No explanation waiting at the bottom. As the last shape of him softened, his voice came quieter now, closer to the ground.
“I didn’t have a radio inside me, and now you know it.”
By morning, the park looked ordinary again. Just snow. Just trees. Just the faint sense that something had listened, and spoken, was made to leave, and had chosen not to return.
The experts would say the conditions had changed.
But some people swore they still heard a whoosh in the air when the snow was right.
Welcome to Write the Story! Each month, Writers Unite! will offer a writing prompt for writers to create and share a story with everyone. WU! wants to help our members and followers generate more traffic to their platforms. Please check out the authors’ blogs, websites, and Facebook pages and show them support. We would love to hear your thoughts about the stories and appreciate your support!
To Bridge the Gap
Calliope Njo
Why was it, every time I took this journey, it was foggy outside? Again, crossing the Chain Bridge. It was a necessary journey I had to make. Somewhere out there, either God or a high official, defined the word partner. I had to live up to that definition. This trip brought out memories of what started it all.
If I attended the academy, then it was possible I could find a place there. I was all for doing that. There was always a place to start and a chance to work up the ladder. Going to the academy wouldn’t guarantee that, but it offered a way to get more information than what I had before.
After ninety days, I graduated. Not with perfect scores, but I made it. The way this place worked was this. It wasn’t a huge country wide federal agency. We had four offices in total, with our goal being to investigate or offer assistance to whomever needed it. Hence the name The Office of Special Investigations.
I started off being a grade level one. That rank was the very bottom. Elsewhere it might mean something else, but here, it was the very bottom. The work was paperwork. If it had to do with paperwork, chances were, we had it somewhere. So what? It’s an office. What did you expect? I couldn’t remember how many people asked me that question. It was a lot.
Nathanael got me into this line of work. We sort of ran into each other at the train station when I first moved to Virginia, and he needed someone to play Mrs. Nathanael Charlamagne. I was it.
He was taller than I was with sunny-blonde hair, and a sort of summer blue eyes. His hair reached his shoulders, and it never looked like he shaved any. Of course there was the potbelly.
I stood up to his shoulders with brown hair and brown eyes. While both of us had the same skin color, we didn’t look like we matched any. I always imagined a married couple matching. Well, it had to be done so I tried to make the best of it.
When that was all said and done, he told me there was always a need for good people.
I took that challenge. I graduated. It was policy that everybody had a partner. Good, bad, or indifferent. I thought mine would be Nathanael. God, was I wrong. Instead I got somebody named Obade Carrow. Tall, bald, and black with a deep voice.
It’s not a problem if someone was a different race than I was. We lived in America. There was going to be a lot of different people. The only thing I was happy about was the fact he spoke. Everything else… well… maybe I better explain which might help tell why I hated that bridge. At least one of the reasons.
I cooked for him: breakfast, midday meal, and the last meal of the day. I had to get everything from across the bridge and that was not easy traffic. Of course, he learned the art of sleeping with his eyes open. One never knew if he was indeed awake. That left me to do the work.
As a grade level one, I couldn’t do the investigation. That would’ve been up to Obade, but since he slept all day and night, I had to. The consequences of not doing it would’ve been three days spent at home without pay. Well hey, that meant a vacation, and since I’m at such a low level, I couldn’t get into trouble. No. During those days, it was expected that a proper apology letter would be written by both agents, and then presented to the board. If they didn’t like it, it had to be rewritten until they did like it.
What did all of this mean? What did all of this lead up to? How Nathanael and I got together and that tragic time in our life.
He had Avery as his partner at the time. I remembered one conversation they had while I walked a few steps behind them. I remembered it word for word even though I had no idea what that conversation was about. I didn’t know if it happened or they were rehashing old memories.
“Morning was a whole mess,” Avery said. “Housing tried to pull a Bravo‑level sweep again. Same nonsense as last quarter.”
“Bravo?,” Nathanael said. “That’s generous. Looked more like a Delta‑grade scramble. Nobody had their ducks in formation.”
“Figures,” Avery said. “Did you ever get that 1348 sorted?”
“Eventually,” Nathanael said. “Had to chase down a missing signature — classic ghost‑trail maneuver. Whoever filed it must’ve been asleep at zero‑six.”
On that conversation went. It spanned the whole way from the entry door and on down the hallway.
One day, I was in the Agents’ Information Area and they walked in. They laughed and carried on with a conversation I couldn’t even guess. I shrugged my shoulders and went on to the Boardroom to update the Board of Directors about the latest file they gave me. OK. I didn’t do the updating. Obade did that.
Then that day happened. Avery pushed Nathanael into the supervisor’s office. I never knew what an evil smile looked like until I saw Nathanel’s as he closed the blinds. He looked right at me as he did that. I didn’t know what they were talking about, but between the thuds and the raised voices it had to be something big.
Avery stormed out of the office with tears in her eyes. We were never friends to begin with so it didn’t matter.
What mattered was Nathanael. He looked at me as he snapped his fingers one at a time with a single clap in the end. I learned later it was a habit he picked up when he got angry.
Of all the people in my life, the one person I regretted ever meeting was my ex-husband Glenn King. He had a small stash worth about three-quarters of a million dollars in the Cayman Islands.
He offered me the Cayman account to stay with him. He needed help taking care of his so-called inventory. I couldn’t do it. Those innocent bundles. I never had a quiet night’s sleep. I could never get passed the sound of pain as they expressed how they felt.
He was the reason I was nicknamed cyborg woman. If it wasn’t for the help the Domestic Violence Safety Train gave me, I wouldn’t be up and around at all. I would still be lying down somewhere. Not being able to talk, see, hear, or move at all. Wishing I was dead.
I kept tabs on Glenn. I knew where he was and what he was doing. If Nathanael wanted to go down with glory, I had the means to do that.
Oh no, he never said it. How could I tell? It was in the number of cases he turned down. He never told me why, only that it wasn’t in the best interest of the office that the case be solved by any of the agents. That gave me an idea.
I put together all of the information I had on Glenn, put it in a folder, marked it as official, and left it on Nathanael’s desk. That information included the Cayman account number, and that mysterious string of numbers with Luxembourg printed on it. I thought if he had that, he might be able to take down the most evil man in existance.
I remembered walking into his office as he opened the folder. The next thing I knew he was jumping up and down as if he was so excited, and he didn’t know how to expell all of that energy.
I made it into the boardroom to find out if there would be anything else. There was nothing else, because Obade died during the night of a heart attack. I put it in the back of my mind to look into later.
I walked into Nathanael’s office right on time. That was my assignment for the day. After a minute, I went to the coffee maker to make the coffee. Why they didn’t have a Keurig I never asked. About the same time I turned it on, Nathanel came in.
“OK. Look Rookie. I just got a big case. OK? I don’t need no ground level friggin’ idiots messing things up. What I need is a loft that looks modern and expensive. I need a car to fit. A wardrobe that would impress the friggin’ Mr. President. Let me know when you got those. You can get those right? Of course you can. Even a friggin’ idiot can do it.”
I didn’t say anything. I didn’t need to. I had everything he wanted so all I had to do was get it.
When I got home, I found the keys to that condo I had. I was going to sell it. I didn’t need it or want it anymore. I couldn’t even remember why I bought it. To me it looked like a warehouse with big windows. Tall windows with white walls and concrete flooring. The industrial look didn’t suit me.
I stored something else in a warehouse. I kept the great one covered to keep the dust off. I only drove it enough to keep it alive. There was that abandoned racetrack I could sneak onto, as long as I didn’t make a scene. Hard to do with a Koenigsegg CCXR Trevita, but I managed. Funny thing is, I won it in a poker game. The guy who lost it was about to be a dad. I still think about that sometimes.
Keys to the condo, the fob for the car, and the last thing — that was in the closet. I dated someone, once upon a time. Other than Glenn. They were about the same size, so it should’ve fit. In case it didn’t, I stuffed some money in an envelope and buried it in the suitcase with the clothes. I put the keys in my purse and went to bed hoping everything would be all right, though I already knew better.
I had to meet with the director of my level the next morning, so I tossed the keys in the top drawer and locked it. Put the suitcase behind his chair. I wasn’t hiding it; it was somewhere to put it. I left the address and the pictures of the condo and the car in the drawer too. Then I sent him a text: I got everything you needed. Good luck.
The board kept me busy with this file and that file getting every piece of nitty gritty they could find. I was never sure what their intention was, only that they were keeping me busy without cause.
I kept watch over Nathanael. I saw him change over time. Gone was the pot belly and messy hairstyle. In their place was a man with an athletic build, and short slicked-back hair. It made him look like a supermodel. He even grew a mustache and beard. Nothing hillbilly style, but taken care of so he looked clean and neat.
Then that day came. It was a day out of hell. Soldiers and master computers programmed to kill. Minirobots and RMC fighter jets armed with bullets and bombs. They weren’t toys. They were meant to kill.
A moment I would never forget. I somehow ended up in a hole with Nathanael next to me. I was never sure what happened to him, but whatever it was, scrambled his brain. Eyes wide open, looking everywhere around him, white knuckles, and his shaking legs. The words that came out of his mouth were too mumbled to understand. I didn’t have panic attacks so I couldn’t say that’s what happened. I could only hope at that point he would get better.
When everything finished, they had to shoot him with a tranquilizer to be able to get him into an ambulance. I rode along with him to County General. The receptionist had the phone in one hand, and greeted everybody with a clipboard in the other. I could swear I saw sparks fly when the printer printed.
The doctor came out, and scratched his bald head while he blew out a breath. Somewhere between all of his breaths, he mentioned that there wasn’t anybody on staff who could diagnosis Nathanael enough to give him treatment. So he was transferred ASAP to a mental clinic where they could offer a diagnosis.
The doctor gave me a card before he almost ran away. When I got back out to my car, I called the clinic. The woman on the other end, could only say he was admitted, and that maybe a proper diagnosis would be offered later that night.
According to the lady on the phone, Nathanael didn’t offer much cooperation between the screaming and the running. When he wore himself out, they were able to examine his mental status. I had to call back the following morning before I could speak to the doctor.
Perceptual manipulation was the diagnosis. Someone had distorted his sense of reality so much that he believed what he was doing was harmless. No intent, no awareness — only a manufactured belief that everything was fine.
That meant he needed serious psychological care, the kind of help the Office couldn’t — or wouldn’t — provide.
I had about a week before the paperwork caught up with him. One week to battle the Board. I spent that entire time fighting with them over medical insurance. Imagine that — insurance. Mine would cover Nathanael’s treatment. Theirs wouldn’t. All they had to do was drop him from their policy so I could put him under mine. It took a full week to get them to agree.
That’s where I was. It took two hours to cross the bridge, and get onto a dirt road that led to a mental facility. A facility for mental wellness and assistance, so read the sign.
I parked my car and locked it before I left. My purse was in my trunk so about the only thing I had on me were the keys. I signed in at the front desk and showed them my keys. The front desk clerk shook her head and put out a tray to put the keys in.
I walked down the hallway and read the white boards as I passed them. His room was at the end. Nathanael-9 AM- Dr. Skjoldbrannfjellhaugensdatter. Uhm yeah. He had Dr. S and his session should have finished since it was one o’clock.
I knocked on the door before I opened it. “Hi, Nathanael. It’s me. It’s Margaretta. Can I come in?”
He didn’t answser and I didn’t hear him walk towards me. I opened the door a little more to fit my head through. “Hi. There you are.”
He looked like a little kid with his hand by his chin half waving and the other sort of went up and down as he reached my face. The beard and mustache was still there and his hair grew a little more. “Hi. I’m Nathanael. You can come in if you want. I think you’re the first one.”
Gone was the overconfidant man who had strange conversations in the hallway. He held my cheek and rubbed it a couple times. He smiled after he did that. After the introduction, he didn’t say anything, only smiled.
We sort of stood there watching each other when a doctor stepped in. White hair, white beard and mustache, doctor’s jacket and white shirt, and those dark slacks. Every doctor I’ve ever met had that same outfit. I always thought that doctors took a class or something to get notes on the proper dress.
“Excuse me, Miss, may I have a word with you?” the doctor said.
“Sure,” I said. “I’ll meet you outside.” I watched him go. “It looks like the doctor wants to meet with me. The way the time is going right now, I’m going to leave right after that. OK? Don’t worry. I’ll be back.” I patted his cheek.
“You’re… you’re real? A grown up. Right?”
“Yup. All grown up and I promise I can drink.” Uh oh. I think I hit a nerve. It made him growl a bit. “OK. OK. I’m sorry.” I put my hand on his cheek. “Bad joke. I better go see what the doctor wants. I’ll let your grandfather know what’s going on as well.”
“All right. Thank you.” He started to stretch out his arms as if in a hug, but he put his arms down.
I went outside the room. “OK. Doc. What is it?”
“He’s stable, but he’s not progressing the way we hoped. He needs a more structured, longer-term environment. He will be moving to a Trauma Informed Residential Program. They’re calmer, quieter, and more humane than a hospital‑like facility. This won’t be a quick fix. The mind is a very complex thing, Ma’am. It will take time and nothing is ever perfect, but we can hope to achieve it. Should you have any questions, please wait until the transfer is final.”
After he turned around and walked away, I was left stunned. I heard every word he said, but I had no idea what he said. I knew with the drive back it would come to me. At that moment though, I wanted to go in, and pick up Nathanael, and throw him in my car. That wouldn’t help him at all. It could make things worse. I had to get back.
Monday morning, I got back to work. Of course, I worked in the Agent Area. Everybody could see everybody, but I had the feeling of being watched. It didn’t make sense to me, but it felt like everytime I moved somebody somewhere scrutinized that move. It felt like that all week. The work was basic paperwork. Get this file, get that file, be sure to deliver this to the director in Level Four sort of thing. I didn’t think anything about it.
It was Saturday, at last. A whole day to drive out and see Nathanael. I hoped the new facility was treating him better than the last one. At least heading that direction meant I didn’t have to cross the Chain Bridge — small mercies.
I was about to settle in for the long drive when I spotted two charcoal‑grey Toyota Corollas, identical right down to the darkened windows. Office cars. Of course. I wondered who they thought they were following today.
Maybe the Board was a little bored. Maybe they needed the field trip. Well… if they were going to tail me anyway, I could at least give them a scenic tour of D.C. Keep morale up. So I hit the highlights like the Lincoln Memorial, Washington Memorial, and of course we had to pass by the Smithsonian Museums. After making a turn to see the White House, they turned around and left. I guess they already saw it. Oh well.
I reached the facility at last. I left my purse in the trunk of my car and left my keys at the front desk after signing in. I found Nathanael’s room. On the right side, as opposed to the left in the last place, and in the middle. Nathanael Charlemagne was written on the white board.
I knocked on the door and poked my head in. “Hi, Nathanael. It’s me. It’s Margaretta.”
“Hi.” He walked to the door and pulled it open. As soon as I walked in he closed it. He wrapped his arms around me in a tight hug. Not so tight that I couldn’t breathe, but tight. “It’s been a while. What happened? Did you get lost or something?” He scrunched his eyebrows.
“Well, they don’t allow visitors when you first move in. There’s a waiting period. I’m here now. How are you doing?”
“Me? I’m OK. The doctors don’t seem too optomistic about how things are progressing. It just feels like mu head is too stuffed. Or something. They keep telling me there will be a time when all of it will be released and then the real healing will begin.” He gave me a peck on the cheek. H shrugged.
“It’s all right.” I rubbed his shoulder. “Things will come around at some point. They said it might help if there are things in your room to help make it homey. Did you want any books or magazines? I could bring in some art supplies like crayons and paper?”
He shook his head. “No. I just want—I want—” He picked up a pillow and threw it. I ducked as it headed in my direction.
As soon as he turned around I left his room. A medical team came in right after I left the room.
It wasn’t going to be easy. They’ll teach him how to deal with all of that stuff in his head. Maybe when I find Avery again, she can help. In the meanwhile, maybe some time and distance is what’s needed.
Welcome to Write the Story! Each month, Writers Unite! will offer a writing prompt for writers to create and share a story with everyone. WU! wants to help our members and followers generate more traffic to their platforms. Please check out the authors’ blogs, websites, and Facebook pages and show them support. We would love to hear your thoughts about the stories and appreciate your support!
The Bridge
Tanja Cilia
Getting across the bridge was my only hope, but they were closing in rapidly.
The taxi-driver was one of those garrulous ones who tells you what he would do if they were President, Pope, Prime Minister, or Dear Leader.
I answered him in monosyllables, and laughed and sighed and grunted and exclaimed when he expected it of me. I didn’t even correct him when he showed off and mispronounced Wǔhàn Chángjiāng Dàqiáo differently, each time he said it.
All the while, I kept looking at the side mirror, hoping my pursuers would get a puncture, or crash, or fall into the river. They had switched off the cherry lights and the sirens, so as not to draw attention to themselves, as soon as they passed The Wuchang Uprising Memorial.
Anyone with an ick of sense would have recognised the vehicles for what they really were, nonetheless. Beat-up Ford Escorts that are more suited to stock car races than to Mafiosi chasing an informer are a tad out of place in China. They stood out like a sore thumb, but everyone assumed they were crazy tourists having fun.
They didn’t actually know who they were looking for… the last time they saw me, I had hip-long, black, straight, hair with a fringe that covered my eyebrows, and perfect saubhaya makeup. I was wearing a distinctive oriental red silk dress with slits halfway up my thighs, and teetered on stilettos.
Now, I sported my own gamine blonde haircut, jeans, and a Barney the Dinosaur t-shirt I had picked off the floor in my son’s room, after I got the coded phone call that told me they were on to me. It smelled of Nutella, butter, and rancid sweat… but I didn’t care.
I wanted to put as much distance as possible between me and them, just in case one of the minor staff at the hotel was a spy who had seen me make a run for it.
They knew they would be powerless to act once I crossed Wuhan Yangtze River Bridge, and that is why they were heading that way. It was an educated guess. Not that they could be called educated, by any stretch of the imagination… but you know what I mean.
A traffic jam… just my luck.
Fifty yards? Shall I make a dash for it? Or will the sight of someone running trigger their responses? What if they have a sniper rifle with a telescopic sight?
The thought lodged itself in my skull and refused to move, like a brainworm bad lyric you can’t stop humming. I imagined a red dot blooming on the back of my neck, just below the hairline, a delicate little flower of death. I hunched my shoulders instinctively, as if that might help, and the taxi-driver mistook it for impatience.
“Bridge always like this,” he said cheerfully, gesturing at the snarl of traffic ahead as if it were a beloved family trait. “Government say fix it. Government always say fix it. If I were Government, I would…”
I grunted agreement and stared out of the window. The Yangtze lay beneath us, broad and indifferent, carrying silt, history, and secrets eastward. Revolutions had begun here. Empires had bled here. It seemed absurd to imagine that my own small, ignominious end might take place on the same stretch of water, felled by men who couldn’t even be bothered to visit a barber.
The bridge, all steel and concrete confidence, was strung with cables like the ribs of some vast mechanical beast. Once across, jurisdiction would blur. Paperwork would burgeon, and phones would stop ringing, and the internet would be patchy at best. Favors would suddenly be owed instead of demanded. They knew it. I knew it. That was why this stretch felt longer than the whole journey before it.
The taxi jerked forward a few feet, then stopped again. I risked another glance in the mirror. The Escorts were still there, nosing forward impatiently, drivers hunched low, eyes hidden behind cheap sunglasses bought in bulk at some motorway service station half a world away. I looked away quickly, heart hammering.
I tried to slow my breathing, counting the seconds between the blinks of the indicator lights ahead of us. I told myself that panic was a luxury I couldn’t afford to show, that fear-breathing was noisy, and noise attracted attention. If I bolted now, I would really become a problem that needed solving. If I stayed still, I was just another tired foreigner stuck in traffic, wearing a ridiculous shirt that advertised a purple dinosaur.
The taxi-driver launched into another story; something about his cousin, a failed restaurant, and a misunderstanding involving the only authentic recipe for Peking Duck. I clung to the normality of his voice. Every word he spoke was a thread anchoring me to the ordinary world, the one where bridges were just bridges, not links to life, and traffic jams were just inconveniences, not threats.
The car rolled forward again. Slowly, inexorably, the midpoint of the bridge crept closer. I felt a curious lightness spread through me, not relief exactly, but resolve. Whatever happened next would happen quickly. There would be no more disguises, no more borrowed clothes, no more mirrors.
I straightened in my seat, wiped my hands on my jeans, and fixed my eyes on the far side of the bridge.
Writers Unite! begins its eleventh year offering the “Write the Story!” Join us in continuing the “Write the Story” tradition!
Now for January 2026!
WU! created this project with two goals: to provide a writing exercise and promote our author sites to increase reader traffic. When you post your story elsewhere, please include a link to the Writers Unite! blog. By doing so, you are also helping promote your fellow members and Writers Unite! We encourage you to share each other’s stories to help us grow. Thanks!
The January 2026 Prompt!
Images are free use—Image by Howsla-88from Pixabay.
Here’s the plan:
You write a story of up to 10, 000 words + (minimum 500 words) or a poem (Minimum 50 words) based on and referring to the image provided, and post it on the author site you wish to promote. Don’t forget to give your story a title. (Note: You do not have to have a website/blog/FB author page to participate. Your FB profile or WordPress link is acceptable.)
Please edit these stories. WU! will no longer conduct minor editing on your story, so please send in edited work. WU! reserves the right to reject publishing the story if it is poorly written.
The story must have a title and author name, and the link to the site you wish to promote must be included.
Send the story and link to the site via Facebook Messenger to Deborah Ratliff or email to [email protected]. Put “Write the Story” in the first line of the message.
Please submit your story by the 25th day of the month.
WU! will post your story on our blog and share it across our platforms—Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, etc. The story will also be available in the archives on the WU! blog, along with the other WTS entries.
Welcome to Write the Story! Each month, Writers Unite! will offer a writing prompt for writers to create and share a story with everyone. WU! wants to help our members and followers generate more traffic to their platforms. Please check out the authors’ blogs, websites, and Facebook pages and show them support. We would love to hear your thoughts about the stories and appreciate your support!
Mystery Under the Lake
Marian Wood
The Café by the lake
Looking out over the quiet Lake I sipped at my coffee and tried to listen to the man across from me. Hearing words here and there I was distracted by the white house and the red thing, is that a shop or a phone box. Snow on the trees reflected in the water as I learnt about a hidden tunnel and a plan.
Why use a café to discuss such matters? I had followed him from the churchyard after observing him walking amongst the gravestones. I had become curious as he stopped at each one making notes. Something wasn’t right, he was a stranger to our village, what interest did he have in our deceased folk?
This is when it got interesting. The odd words, “tunnel, treasure and brave.” I certainly should not have been listening but there he was on his phone and I couldn’t help it. Was he a bad person or was he a Christmas philanthropist? He then hung up and started to look around the room. Who or what was he now looking for? As he noticed me watching him, I quickly turned to watch the water. Feeling an uneasy sick feeling, am I in trouble now?
Annie
‘Hi, just wondering, have you lived here long? Can I buy you another drink?”
Stammering I answered, “About ten years and no, my coffee is fine.”
As I willed him to go away, he pulled out the chair and sat down. Struck by his handsome smile I reminded myself that I’ve been caught here before. I’ve so far got to meet a genuine nice man, so far they are all rogues and cheats.
“Did you ever meet a little lady called Annie Hart?” She lived in the house just over there and she would help on Sundays at the church.
I remembered Annie, she died about six months ago. I nodded.
“Did you know her well? and any of her family?”
“I didn’t, it was more just hello and nod. I was always unsure of her family”.
“Ok, and do you often trust your uneasiness? He smiled.
“I do, but I’m not always right”. Where was this headed? Handsome stranger approaches girl in café and asks questions about a dead old lady.
“Was Annie well liked?”
“I think so but there was always something about her, might have been her sons but she was not someone that you upset. You just smiled, nodded and kept going.”
“You are wise, would it surprise you to learn that I’m also one of her sons”.
“It would, but I’ve never seen you before”. My stomach was churning, what was happening here?
The family
“Have you ever heard about the lake passageway?”
No never, as far as I know there is just a footpath that goes around it if that’s what you mean?”
“What’s your name? I’m Philip.”
He held out his hand, shaking it I answered,
“I’m Carla”. Should I be careful? Can Philip be trusted? His brothers you certainly can’t.
“I’m aware that you followed me from the cemetery which means you are either nosey or curious in a mystery like I am.”
“Or I am a girl who likes a handsome man in a suit but confused why he is taking notes in a graveyard”.
Why was he trusting me with this. Pulling out his notebook I was now shocked with what I was reading.
The deaths of Annie and Ted then other names that I didn’t recognise.
“My dad was her first husband, William George.”
“Was he not murdered? His killers never found”.
“Yes, and who would be your suspects for his murder.”
“Her sons, but surely not?”
“Did you know that those boys were not actually hers. She was with Ted maybe just twenty years the boys she saw them as sons, but they were not her blood. Do you also know what happened to their mum.”
“I’m guessing murdered”.
“She vanished, never found. I’m suspecting that she knew she was in danger”.
The plan
“Okay so Philip, what is happening here. So far, I have pieced together treasure and a tunnel under the lake. A lady who maybe lived a life that was a lie. Why did you not visit sooner.”
“About four years ago I attended a funeral a good few miles from here, Ted informed me that she was dead and I believed him. Don’t know who we buried that day, but the internet is a wonderful thing. Her more recent death came up on my internet newsfeed and I’m now finally here to do something for her, years too late! Ted died maybe a year back and those boys are still here. Carla they are dangerous!”
“How can your suspicions be proven?”
He pulled out a letter and a map of the lake. An underground pathway ran all the way from the café to the church.
“Mum has left something that we need to find. She must have been scared for years, I stayed away as was warned away by Ted. We need to get into the cellar of this café. The police will not listen to my suspicions, that’s who I was talking to. They just mocked my theories as a daft treasure hunt. The treasure here is not gold, it’s getting Mick, Fred and Bob locked away for murder”.
The cellar
I now knew I could help. Reaching for his hand, I pulled him up. Following behind me we now approached the kitchen, I knocked on the door and opened it.
“Pam, please can me and Philip have a look in your cellar?”
“Why love what’s in the cellar?”
“That’s what we need to find out, I just need to check something with Philip”.
She handed me the keys smiling,
“I don’t know what you are up to but there’s rats down there. I haven’t been down those steps in years”.
“Okay come on Philip. Sorry I used to work here, Pam the cook is a good friend.”.
Opening the door we now studied the map. Using his phone as a torch Philip led the way.
Standing in an empty room that’s stank of damp we now looked for a door or gap. Moving some hessian bags and then shelves, Philip led out a whoop.
“Do you have just one key or two?”
“There has always been a mystery key with the cellar key but as Pam said people don’t come down here.”
The passageway
Opening the exposed door with a loud shove and then a creek, we walked through. I’m sure this had been dismissed as a cupboard, certainly not a tunnel. under the lake. I let Philip take my hand; this was an unexpected adventure.
Possibly about halfway under the lake the tunnel opened into a room. Boxes were piled up on the sides and forgotten beer cans littered the floor. According to the map there is something buried under the boxes. I was surprised as he pulled a garden trowel out of his jacket, we need to dig about here.
Pulling boxes out of the way he now started digging, hearing the scrape of metal he breathed heavily. This was it treasure found. As he grabbed it we heard a noise and then Bob appeared in the room holding a gun. I stood sweat pouring of me now, I’m too young to die. As the shouting started and the threats got louder I closed my eyes. Philip stood shielding me as I started to cry. I certainly am not brave. Now as if my prayers were all answered at once, the sound of many footsteps were coming from the church. Then a loud gun shot, no this couldn’t be happening.
Help
Philip grabbed me as the team of Policemen appeared,
“Mr George, I presume, sorry we mocked you. Pam phoned us concerned for Carla, she thought she might be in danger, we came straight away to meet you the other way from the church. Didn’t expect to need to shoot Bob here, but he is known to be dangerous. We just couldn’t prove it”.
Philip now sat with the metal box. Inside his birth certificate reading Philip George, and a photo of him and his mum. Photos of his dad and then letters. Letters written in fear of a man threatening to come between them. Philip took what was his and passed the tin to the policeman,
“I think this is your evidence, mum buried it under the lake as knew it could get her killed. I’m hoping it was natural causes that got her and not Teds sons”.
“That we don’t know, but reading through this it’s evident that your suspicions for your dad are true. Was there any reason for them to latch onto your family as they did?”
Inheritance
“My dad after he died left a large inheritance to my mum, Ted and his boys have been abusing that for years”.
Finding an envelope addressed to Philip in the tin, the policeman passed it.
“You might be wanting that.”
He opened it, “okay I think I need a solicitor, my mother is a very clever lady”.
Turned out that William had left a much larger sum of money. They had planned ahead and Philip was now inheriting thousands.
So, all in a day’s work, one murderer shot, two more to catch and a new handsome stranger helped.
A year later
Philip is no longer a stranger, we are having our own much safer adventure together, The person who I suspected as a bad man is actually a very good kind man, full of stories and plenty of laughter. We are happy and life is good.
The ;police with help from Annie’s letters had now found Sandra, Teds first wife, not dead just running. The boys now imprisoned she no longer needed to hide. Grateful to Philip and Annie, her and Annie had been writing for years. Both scared of angering Ted and the boys they had been supporting each other. I was relieved to find that she was alive not murdered, and was living a happy life on another continent with her husband Fred and his two daughters. Watching the four of them now I hugged Philip. He was a good man, Sandra truly now had her freedom and Annie was in a much happier place away from Teds evil sons.
So, what about our future? no wedding ring yet but right now we couldn’t be much happier. The day I followed my handsome stranger to the café by the lake, I didn’t expect an adventure and love, but this is exactly what I got.
Welcome to Write the Story! Each month, Writers Unite! will offer a writing prompt for writers to create and share a story with everyone. WU! wants to help our members and followers generate more traffic to their platforms. Please check out the authors’ blogs, websites, and Facebook pages and show them support. We would love to hear your thoughts about the stories and appreciate your support!
Stills
Kelli J Gavin
I always said I wouldn’t return. This small town was never home to me. I was here for such a short time, I don’t think anyone will remember me. When I received the letter requesting my presence from the Law Firm of Stills, Stills & Barkley, it stopped me in my tracks. I must have read through the letter three times before I understood what it was really saying.
-As I already knew, the owner of the coffee shop where I worked for 8 months in my late teens had passed away.
-I am welcome to come early on the 20th of December, and attend the funeral at 11 a.m. at the Barkley Funeral Home in town. After, a light luncheon will be served at Barkley’s, the aforementioned coffee shop. At 3 p.m. Mr. Barkley from Stills, Stills & Barkley would like to meet with me at Barkley’s to hand over a large box left to me by Mrs. Stills who owned Barkley’s.
-I was to inform Mr. Barkley if a room at the Stills Inn should be reserved in my name for that night or if I would be leaving town right away.
I giggled out loud reading the letter. In the town of Stills, The Stills and Barkley families owned everything. The coffee chop, the funeral home, the inn, the two restaurants, the bank and bakery, the gas station, the thrift store, etc.. You name it. Someone with the last name of Stills or Barkley owned it. Stills only had a population of about 7500 people, but you were a novelty if your last name wasn’t Stills or Barkley. Generation after generation called Stills home and they lead quiet, content lives. There was no reason to live anywhere else when Stills had all that they would need.
I lived in Stills for just over a year. My dad was a nomad by nature. Never spending too much time in any one place, I got to see most of the United States by the time I graduated high school. I loved history and road travel, so this was the highlight of my young years. Because my dad and I spent so much time together, I was his captive audience. He taught me everything he knew and emphasized the importance of being a lifelong learner. He challenged me to read books beyond my understanding and to make notes with any questions I had. We then addressed those questions at dinner each night. Because we moved so often, he also tasked me with navigation and to learn everything about each location we passed through, or even when settled for a spell. When did the town and state originate? What is the population and topography? Were there any interesting historical happenings in a specific town or state? It was almost as if my dad challenged me with verbal book reports daily. I gladly relayed all the information that I learned at local libraries, historical societies and on the internet.
A year long construction contract brought my dad and I to Stills. My mom had died 5 years prior of an aggressive brain tumor and since, it was just him and I. At 17, moving to the small town of Stills was probably the first time I objected. Dad told me we needed the money and the town of Stills needed someone with experience who could work on both residential and commercial properties. Dad was made the Foreman of three specific projects. He would oversee three sites, one with twelve single-family homes, the commercial building which would house the car dealership, and the new restaurant and large gift shop at the end of town. It was a big undertaking for a small town to accomplish this much in a year, but they had faith in my dad’s proven skills and he delivered.
Beginning my senior year actually on time with the other students my age was something that had rarely occurred in the past. Often, I would would start school at random times, November, January 1st and even April. Whenever we moved, dad always gave me a few weeks to adjust and then informed me of my start date. He would hand me money for a new backpack and school supplies and I was expected to do my best traveling around town on my own and acquire what was needed for school and clothing. The town of Stills was laid out so well with something interesting on each of the downtown streets. There were three new and used clothing stores, a bakery, a hardware store, a 99 cent store and an office supply store on Main Street alone. I was able to grab what I needed and then some. Things were so much less expensive in this small town than what we had encountered in the last two larger cities.
The teachers were excellent at Stills High School and I even made friends quickly. The other students were friendly and kind and helped me become comfortable in my new surroundings. I joined the choir and started taking a before school art class, but a few months into school, I was bored. I enjoyed spending time with my friends, but I needed to find an activity after school. I enjoyed the coffee at Barkley Coffee Shop so much, I figured after school I should ask if they are hiring. Mrs. Stills told me they weren’t hiring, but she would 100% hire me. She explained that she observed that I worked so hard on my homework when there, didn’t entertain conversations with friends and acquaintances until I was finished, and was always kind to the wait staff. I blushed at the minor compliments. She told me that I would need to be comfortable using the register, warming up baked goods, preparing coffee drinks, clearing tables and doing dishes. She also explained that if I closed I would need to clean the tables, floors and bathrooms. I felt I could do well with all of that and asked her if she needed to fill out an application.
“Sweet child. You are hired. I just ask that you show up on time when scheduled and don’t leave me hanging. Stay off your cell phone and be kind to every person who enters those doors.” Mrs. Stills replied.
Thrilled beyond belief, I asked when I could start.
“Now. You start now. Go wash your hands and I’ll get you an apron.” She smiled earnestly.
I loved working at Barkley Coffee Shop. I loved the employees, the customers and especially Mrs. Stills. I worked about 12-15 hours a week and enjoyed every moment of it. I learned so much about organizing everything for each new day, and even started learning how to keep the books. Mrs. Stills entrusted me to bring the deposits, cash and checks to the bank each afternoon before the bank closed and I always raced back so that she could go home and make dinner for her husband and relax. My time with Mrs. Stills was something I will always cherish. She was kind and encouraging, helped with homework when I got stuck and showed me how to make 6 baked items from scratch. I had never spent much time in the kitchen with my mom when I was little, so learning how to make baked goods was a delight. My dad loved when I then recreated them at home. Twice a month, she asked me to go to her home and cook dinner with her. She always made something easy, nutritious and delicious. I knew how to make 12 full dinners from scratch just by spending a free evening two times a month with Mrs. Stills.
The conversations that we had when it was just the two of us, are something I will always hold dear. She explained her heartache at never being able to have children and that she always wanted a daughter. She said she loved our time together so much and that she was touched that I enjoyed spending time with her and learning from her. She smiled and hugged me often. “You beautiful girl. The daughter I always prayed for!”
My dad admired my baking and cooking skills as much as he was thrilled with my grades and the fact that I knew how to keep a checkbook, save money, make wise purchases and converse about things that matter.
Beaming at me across the dinner table one evening, my dad said, “Alyssa. You make me so happy. I love seeing you enjoy what you are doing and maturing into a well rounded human. I am so thankful that Mrs. Stills is pouring into your life and helping you grow. I feel she is an absolute God-send.”
When my dad’s year-long contact approached it’s final month, he explained that he asked to stay on for future projects in Stills, but nothing was slated for the next six months. He said we would be leaving Stills. Leaving Stills? But that was the last thing I wanted to do. We stayed in Stills for a total of 13 months. 13 months wasn’t enough. 13 more wouldn’t be either. I had graduated and decided to take a gap year. Dad encouraged me to commit to only one year off and then promptly return to school. We moved to Chicago as my dad signed a new 18 month contract for construction work on an upscale high rise remodel.
Telling Mrs. Stills that we were moving again was more challenging that I ever anticipated.
“But what will I do without the daughter I always wanted? I am glad your dad has another job lined up, but life will never be as entertaining as when you are here. I adore you. I am exited for you and what this life has to offer. Boy oh boy. I can’t wait for the day to get a call from you telling me about some swanky big shot job you you have. The sky is the limit. You will be missed. But boy oh boy, am I exited for you.”
The tears I shed after my final shift the day before we left, could have watered Mrs. Stills front yard for an entire summer. So many hugs and so few words were exchanged. I vowed to never return as I felt I would be opening a fresh wound of regret for ever leaving such an amazing small town such as Stills.
Dad and I quickly settled into our new apartment in Chicago and he was excited for this new challenge. I became bored quickly with two menial jobs and decided to start college courses after the New Year. I tested well and passed exams for the 1st two full years of classes within the first three months. I enjoyed college classes at my own pace and learned that a business degree was on my horizon. Business? Did I want to go into business?
I finished all of my undergraduate and graduate classes within two years total. At just 21, I had a masters in business formation and reorganization. I started working for a firm that was hired by large companies when they needed help and a fresh set of eyes. Someone to come in and teach them how to redeem profitability and increase growth without mergers or acquisitions being a part of short term and long term plans. I loved what I was hired to do and excelled.
I exchanged frequent emails with Mrs. Stills and we spoke monthly about what I was doing and what I was experiencing in Chicago. She laughed and reminded me that if I ever needed a job, there was always one waiting for me back in Stills. Dad’s job turned into a permanent placement as construction foreman and he seemed to enjoy Chicago as much as I did. When I moved out and purchased my own apartment, he just smiled and said, “Look at my girl fly.”
As the years passed, memories of days gone by became a bit more fuzzy. Dad always asked about Mrs Stills. When the call came from her explaining that she wasn’t feeling well and she had gone to the doctor, she was then diagnosed with Stage IV Breast Cancer and was told that chemo, radiation and surgery were all possible, but even with pursuing the greatest medical interventions, she was given a survival timeline of 12-18 months tops.
My heart hurt for her. My heart hurt for Mr. Stills. My heart just hurt.
While we stayed in touch during those final months, nothing prepared me for the call that came late one evening from Mr. Stills. Mrs. Stills, the love of his life, had passed peacefully that afternoon. We cried together on the phone and I thanked him time and again for calling. He told me that information would follow about the memorial service. No formal funeral as Mrs. Stills wouldn’t like that. Just a brief memorial and luncheon would be planned. I told him I would be there, no matter what. Even knowing how difficult it would be to go back to the only town where I found joy in as a teenager.
I was expecting to find out about the memorial and luncheon from Mr. Stills, not by receiving a letter from Mr. Barkley at Stills, Stills & Barkley. I emailed him promptly and stated that yes, I would attend the memorial, the luncheon and would be happy to meet with him after. I also requested that a room at the Inn be reserved for me. His assistant was happy to receive my response and she promptly booked me a room. She also said that I didn’t need to pay for anything as all accommodations have been taken care of. I thought that was odd, but thanked her for her help. Was everyone’s accommodations being taken care of, or just mine?
Traveling to Stills, I knew to allow many more hours than necessary as the roads may may slippery because of the newly fallen snow. I left at 6 a.m. instead of 7:30 a.m. from Chicago and was pleased that most roads were clear until I got off the freeway about 20 miles from Stills. Those 20 miles I drove to Stills brought back so many great memories, I found myself wiping away one stray tear after another.
It was so good to see Mr. Stills and so many other people from town. I was received so warmly, I started crying before the memorial even began. The service was beautiful and was a true celebration of life. A God-Honoring Home Going Service to remember. My heart was full as each of the people selected to share warm memories of Mrs. Stills stood at the podium with a microphone.
The luncheon was so delicious and I enjoyed visiting with quite a few of the people that I had worked with all those years ago at Barkley Coffee Shop and gone to school with. Mr. Stills insisted I sit with him during the luncheon and told me more than once that he was so touched that I had returned to honor his wife in her passing.
“I wouldn’t have it any other way. I owe my confidence, my knowledge and much of my success to your wife. She was the mom I needed. She knew she was and never missed a moment to love me and encourage me. I am forever thankful for all she did for me.” I wiped a few tears as I expressed my gratitude.
Saying goodbye to a number of people I had visited with throughout the day, I nodded at Mr. Barkley as he entered the back room of the Barkley Coffee Shop. I joined him and looked around as if expecting other people, but it was just us.
“Mrs. Stills loved you very much. You were the daughter she always wanted. This box is for you.” Mr. Barkley stood and walked to the other side of the room and retrieved a large box with a lid.
“Thank you.” I said and paused. “Am I supposed to open this” I asked.
“Yes. I will leave you to it. Let me know if you have any questions.” Mr. Barkley said as he exited.
I opened the box and found a letter, on top of something wrapped in tissue paper. Opening the letter quickly, I found the beautiful handwriting of Mrs. Stills.
My sweetest girl-
Thank you for being you. You are the daughter I always dreamed of and prayed for. Thank you for never breaking contact with me all these years even after moving to Chicago. Your kindness has always warmed my heart. You are an amazing woman and it has been a privilege having you in my life. Please accept the contents of this box as my gift to you. I had always wanted to save money for retirement. Retirement was something that I never got to enjoy. Cancer is a beast and it has cut my life way too short. Don’t wait until retirement. Take the trip you’ve always wanted to go on. Put a down payment on a house in the country. Buy a new car. Give this money freely to a cause you wish to support. Do whatever you wish. Just do it joyfully. Do it knowing I love you. I always have sweet girl. Thank you. I will be watching over you and your dad too. I promise.
Much love and adoration,
Mrs. Stills
P.S. Don’t argue about the contents of this box. Consider it your final Barkley Coffee Shop tip.
——-
I couldn’t catch my breath for a few minutes and was so glad that Mr. Barkley hadn’t returned. I removed the tissues from my purse and blew my nose and wiped my eyes. Reminding myself to take deep breaths, I stood as I prepared to untangle the tissue paper mound found in the large box on the table.
Money. It was a stack of $100 bills. Stack after stacks after stacks. I could hardly believe my eyes. Why cash? Oh. My final tip from Barkley Coffee Shop. Mrs. Stills was always so intentional and clever.
Mr. Barkley returned to me as I closed the lid of the large and heavy box on the table. “Will you be needing any assistance getting to the Inn?”
“No, no. I am fine. Thank you Mr. Barkley. Thank you for coordinating this for me. I appreciate you and the guidance you have given to Mr. and Mrs. Stills over the years.” I stated.
At the Inn that night, I took a closer look at the contents of the box. $50,000. 50. I was in shock.
I returned home to Chicago the next day, but stopped as I was leaving town. I wanted to take one last picture before I left my favorite small town of Stills.
As 2025 comes to a close, time for one last Write the Story! prompt! Time to write!
Now for December 2025!
WU! created this project with two goals: to provide a writing exercise and promote our author sites to increase reader traffic. When you post your story elsewhere, please include a link to the Writers Unite! blog. By doing so, you are also helping promote your fellow members and Writers Unite! We encourage you to share each other’s stories to help us grow. Thanks!
The December 2025Prompt!
Images are free use—Image by Wolfgang-1958 from Pixabay.
Here’s the plan:
You write a story of up to 8000 words + (minimum 500 words) or a poem (Minimum 50 words) based on and referring to the image provided, and post it on the author site you wish to promote. Don’t forget to give your story a title. (Note: You do not have to have a website/blog/FB author page to participate. Your FB profile or WordPress link is acceptable.)
Please edit these stories. WU! will no longer conduct minor editing on your story, so please send in edited work. WU! reserves the right to reject publishing the story if it is poorly written.
The story must have a title and author name, and the link to the site you wish to promote must be included.
Send the story and link to the site via Facebook Messenger to Deborah Ratliff or email to [email protected]. Put “Write the Story” in the first line of the message.
Please submit your story by the 25th day of the month.
WU! will post your story on our blog and share it across our platforms—Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, etc. The story will also be available in the archives on the WU! blog, along with the other WTS entries.
Welcome to Write the Story! Each month, Writers Unite! will offer a writing prompt for writers to create and share a story with everyone. WU! wants to help our members and followers generate more traffic to their platforms. Please check out the authors’ blogs, websites, and Facebook pages and show them support. We would love to hear your thoughts about the stories and appreciate your support!
Listen to the music!
Marian Wood
Music shop
When I was a teenager, I would always meet my friends on the top floor of a music shop. It was small and very easy to find each other. Those precious days before downloading and streaming music. Those days when you would buy your music and then share it on tapes with your friends.
Would any teen create a mixtape now? Would they know how? I wonder if future generations will buy CDs. I still do, but my children have never shown an interest. They are both happy with streaming on their phones.
So why am I telling you all this? Music drives so many of us. All of us like some form of music. None of us would ever imagine we could be scared by it. Have you ever had a song repeating in your head? And then heard it everywhere you go?
This song haunted me for months before the night. I can replay those times in the music shop, but nothing could have prepared me for this. In life, I had never needed my friends as much as I did then. So here is what happened: Have you ever been told to listen to your inner voice? Yes, you most definitely need to. I was ignoring mine, big mistake!
Our world
A friend told me years ago of a song that made him feel like he was flying. This seemed crazy to me, but he had just experienced something that I should have been listening to. As we go about our daily lives, we miss so much. Often focused on our lives, our problems, our stresses and worries, but we keep on going. How often do you listen to the wind? Actually stand and sense what is happening out there. Have you ever walked through a wood and heard whistling in the trees or stopped as you thought you heard something, then dismissed it? Yes, me too!
The night is a lonely place. I should have listened to Sam and accepted a ride home, but I didn’t. I walked my usual route, listening to music on my headphones.
Walking under the bridge that I’ve walked under many times, my song started playing about being by the river. I smiled, seeing the silent water flowing next to me, reflecting the light of the moon. This was when my whole perspective changed, something happened, and I don’t really understand how.
The field
It felt like I had walked into a long tunnel, with a large field at the end, and the river had vanished. I could hear birds singing, and sheep standing quietly, I could even smell lavender, and the song was still playing. It was as if I had stepped into a different world. Now pulling my coat around me, the wind had changed, and the night felt darker. The music was now replaying; I now actually listened to the words. “I go to the river, I go to the field, the man calls to me, and I’m finally healed.” Does this mean something? Music is key to our lives, but this field does not exist. Where is the bridge?
Feeling fear now, this was wrong. Sitting down, I felt sick. What was Earth trying to tell me?
Hearing my name, I could hear Sam. Hear him, but I couldn’t see him. I had a greater awareness now of the dark field, and the lavender smell was extreme.
Problems
I had been busy these last few months. Fixing other people’s problems but not looking at my own. Things had been spiralling, and tonight I had ignored Sam when he told me to slow down, take a break from work, and look after myself. To stop worrying about other people’s problems and sort out my own. He had advised acupuncture or massage, to just slow down.
Stretching out my legs now, I could feel the grass under me as I lay down. Noticing now that the sky was purple. This was wrong, and Sam’s voice was still talking to me somewhere.
This was a call, listen to your inner voice and slow down, listen to your friends. I had heard this song so many times about the field and healing but ignoring its significance.
A wake-up call
Hearing another voice now, I didn’t recognise it. The field was disappearing. I could hear a beeping noise and could feel a tug on my arm. Coming round, I looked up at the man looking at me, smiling.
This was a wake-up call. I found out later that Sam had followed me home, lucky he did, as I had fainted under the bridge and then stopped breathing. He had dialled 999, and here we are. The paramedic had brought me back, and the music had, for now, stopped. Realising that the song had said about a man healing someone, this was me. I’m sure it had been a warning; I am now listening!
Listen!
I’ve learnt to listen, to stop, and focus on me. I am too young to be fainting and seeing purple skies, and why Lavender and sheep? I can’t explain the sheep, but I had learnt that Sam had started spraying Lavender scent in desperation to help revive me. The next step is to talk to my GP and take a break from work. I need to stop. The world around us is significant. Listen to what it’s trying to tell you, and any songs that seem to be talking to you, mine definitely was.
We all love music, stop and listen to the words, and stop and really listen to the world and your environment. Listen to your internal monologue and stop if you need to; nothing is more important than your own health. Your loved ones need you so work out what really matters. Take each day one at a time and enjoy the company of those around you. I’ve certainly had a frightening wake-up call!
Writers Unite! 