The Final Illusion

December 12, 2025 ~ mstturpin ~ Leave a comment

Another NYC Midnight Short Story

The Grand Opera House in Galveston – photo by the author

Tonight I’m sharing another NYC Midnight contest entry. This one made it through the first round of the Flash Fiction challenge this year. I had to write a 1,000 word or less story in 48 hours in the thriller genre with the setting in an auditorium. And I had to include a ladder in the piece.

Here’s my summary of the story: Magician Mark Ruska and his wife Gigi are involuntary accomplices to a pair of armed assassins during a live show. Working together, the Ruskas perform a dangerous illusion that will be their only escape.

And here is the story, complete in 999 words. (Not counting the title)

The Final Illusion

Every illusion depends on misdirection. The magician, Mark Ruska, paced the stage of the Grand Palace, noting where the set pieces would be during the performance. Everything had to be perfect. On the other side of the velvet curtain, murmurs and shuffling footsteps sounded as the audience filed into the auditorium.

“You done?” The man at the side of the stage motioned with his chin. His hands were busy holding a matte black gun. A red, ridged scar traced across his brow, above eyes the watery gray of a shark’s.

Mark’s wife Gigi stood beside the scarred man. She wore a black tuxedo coat and pants—the outfit matching Mark’s. She nodded to Mark, then wiped her face.

“We’re ready.” Mark scanned the fly space overhead. Heavy sandbags and counterweights hung suspended over a metal catwalk. At the top, accessed by a thin metal ladder, was the wide concrete hallway leading to the rooftop doorway and to an entrance to the theater’s third level.

“We’ll do our job and you guys can go,” the man said.

Mark doubted that. Neither the scarred guy nor the assassin perched on the catwalk had bothered to cover their faces. They would not leave anyone to identify them. Hopefully, their sound and lighting guy, Jim, would stay in his booth, isolated and unknowing of the drama.

At last, the house lights dimmed, the curtains opened, and the show began. The scarred man slid hidden at the side of the stage. Mark wheeled out the large steamer trunk, big as a coffin, that held their equipment.

As they worked their way through the first set—levitation, a transformation illusion, and Gigi’s disappearing rabbit trick, Mark wondered who was the intended victim? The Grand held two hundred seats among three tiers, including six balcony boxes with another twenty-four places. The boxes were positioned directly next to each stage side. Whoever sat in those seats would be at the perfect angle for the catwalk sniper.

A silver-haired man wearing a dark suit sat in the middle box at stage left. Two younger men, both with thick necks and arms that strained the sleeves of their polo shirts, sat behind him. Mark, holding up a chain of clinking triangles, risked a glance at the scarred man. The gunman leaned forward, weapon lowered, his gaze fixed on the man in the box seat.

With a flourish, Mark held the metal triangles up. The chain magically separated into two parts. When the applause faded, he spoke. “For our next trick, we will need a special assistant.” Their usual routine would be to call on a pre-screened audience member. Mark turned to Gigi, hoping their decade of performing this illusion in this theater would allow her to understand his desperate plan. Mentally counting off his steps, Mark rolled the trunk to the position he had noted earlier. Gigi met his gaze, smiled and turned to bring out the folding screen.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome our backstage assistant, John.” Mark waved to the scarred man, motioning him forward. Several beats of awkward silence followed as the man scowled and shook his head.

The next few moments would determine whether they would walk out or perish in the gunfire. Mark assumed they planned to kill their target at the show’s end, hoping the distraction of everyone exiting would cover their escape. Now, some in the audience began to mutter and confused laughter sounded. The silver-haired man half-rose from his seat and looked around. Would the sniper take this as his chance? Mark held his breath, waiting.

Finally, the scarred man strode onstage. “There you are!’ Mark led the man to the steamer trunk. Gigi spun the wooden box, showing the audience the lid and locks. As she helped him into the trunk, Gigi whispered escape instructions to the gunman—instructions he wouldn’t be able to follow. Mark rattled the lock and spoke to cover her voice. “One person goes in, but who will come out?”

Mark leaned to whisper to the man inside. “Listen to the music and wait for the drumroll.” He slipped the lock from its fake, unsecured position and threaded it through the clasp holding the lid closed, then spun the box to show the audience. After he helped Gigi move the screen into place, they walked behind it. The lights dimmed and music played.

In normal times, the audience member would open the fake unlocked panel on the steamer and Gigi would climb inside. Mark would escape the stage by climbing the ladder up to the top and take the door to the third level, reappearing in the audience at the end of the drum roll. It all came down to timing. If they got this right, they might have a chance.

“Go out the back, get security, and call the police.” Mark kissed her. “Don’t look back.”

Gigi squeezed his arm. “I love you.”

The music rose in a crescendo, covering the squeak of the metal rungs as Mark climbed. The lighting changed to dark blue with silvery flashes that looked like stars. All distraction to keep the audience on edge.

When he reached the catwalk, Mark slipped off his shoes and crept toward the sniper. The man remained focused on his target, not noticing as Mark neared.

Four feet away, Mark swung the nearest sandbag in an arc at the gunman. The bag, with its thick rope, knocked the man to the edge of the metal ledge. He grabbed the rope, wrapping his hand around it to steady himself. Mark rushed forward. He pushed the man off the catwalk, then released the counterweight to the bag. The sniper, still grasping the bag, plummeted onto the stage. At the end of its line, the bag jerked to a stop. The sniper fell the last twenty feet—onto the steamer trunk.

The police arrived. An ambulance carted off the handcuffed and injured criminals. Mark looked for the silver-haired man, but he had vanished into the crowd.

THE END

The Magic of Crane Flies

October 31, 2025 ~ mstturpin ~ 3 Comments

A short story

This week’s story was my first entry into the Not Quite Write flash fiction contest. The challenge includes three prompts. One of the three is what they called an “anti-prompt” where the requirement is to break a named writing rule. For the round that I entered, the rule to break was “use active voice.” The other two prompts were: include the word “crane” and include the action of burning something.

I enjoyed writing the story, even if I didn’t place in the contest I still ended up with a nice little story to post here.

The Magic of Crane Flies

Erin Welch dropped the match onto the brush pile, and with a crackle, the dry tinder ignited. The leaves were burned in the evening, because that’s the way it was always done, as her grandmother had taught her. Leaning against her rake, Erin studied the sparks rising into the dark–orange blooms against the purple dusk. The autumn scent of wood smoke filled the air. Soon, they would be drawn to the light.

Minutes later, when the glow lit up the trees, the first crane fly brushed against her cheek. She captured it in her cupped hands, and its six spindly legs tap, tap, tapped against her palms. Others arrived, drunkenly flying above the flames, their wings reflecting amber light. Easy to believe they were faeries, with their long bodies and large eyes.

Erin’s grandmother, Dinky, had always said that crane flies were made for magic. During their short lives, they never ate. Instead, they spent their time reproducing for their next cycle stage. Such determination to foil death had led to their kind surviving for millions of years. Across the yard, inside Dinky’s cabin on the fireplace mantel, was proof–a fossilized crane fly, stamped on a chunk of shale.

“Capture one and it’ll grant a wish,” Dinky had said.

Adulthood cares banished belief in enchantments. Until now, the week after her grandmother’s death. Careful not to damage the trapped insect, Erin whispered her request and released the crane fly.

It joined its mates above the flames, as sparks swirled and joined to form a familiar figure. Before Erin could blink away the apparition, her dead grandmother stepped beside her.

“Nothing like a good fire.” Dinky held her hands out to the flames, as though to warm them. Her body flickered like a pixelated image. As in life, her ghost stood barely over four feet tall, her short stature the inspiration for her nickname.

“Grandma?” Erin’s breath hung in a cloud. The night air turned winter cold. She edged closer to the fire for warmth.

“Who calls me?” Dinky turned, searching as Erin stood beside her.

“I’m here.” There were so many things she wanted to ask her grandmother. She tried to touch the ghost, but her hand passed through.

Gusts of frigid wind scattered the burning leaves. Erin rushed, stamping out pockets of flames. When she finished, Dinky’s ghost had vanished.

“No!” Frantic, Erin tossed handfuls of dried leaves onto what remained of the fire. Despite her efforts, only sparks floated above. The ground circling the fire held dozens of the crane flies, their stick bodies motionless. She dropped to her knees, the cold soaking through her jeans as she scrambled, hoping to find one alive.

She wanted more time. So many things left unsaid. She strode to the cabin and went inside. The wish had only lasted for as long as the crane flies lived, so what better magic than something captured forever? Erin picked up the fossilized crane fly and made her wish.

The End

The Price of Guilt

September 12, 2025 ~ mstturpin ~ 1 Comment

A short story from the 2022 NYC Midnight Flash Fiction Contest

In November 2022 I made it all the way to the final round of the NYC Midnight Flash Fiction Challenge. The story I submitted didn’t land on any of the prize levels, and I filed it away until in 2024 when I reworked it into a tale that was accepted and produced for the Drew Blood’s Dark Tales podcast. Writing is often like that, we take scraps of ideas and piece them together like a quilt. This story changed quite a bit from the original, but one thing that stayed was the object that had been one of the NYC Midnight prompts – a cloche.

Here is the original story, in its unedited glory. Once again, I hope you like it, but if you don’t – don’t tell me.

The Price of Guilt

Beth pulled up the email with the instructions for the rental cottage’s lock. Assured a late arrival would be okay, she grabbed her bag and the half-empty wine bottle from the passenger seat. A single yellow bulb illuminated the porch. In its glow, she studied the damage to her car. A crack zigzagged down the front bumper. Clots of dark red liquid were smeared across the damaged running light.

Hurrying to the front door, she imagined the crunch of steps behind. Inside the house, a tiny fireplace took up one wall, bookcases on either side. Scattered among the dusty books were dozens of cloches. The bell-shaped covers reflected the light, concealing their contents until Beth stood close enough for her breath to fog the glass.

Each cloche held a tiny woodland tableau, filled with moss, twigs, and stone chips—scenes from fairy tales. The old stories, where starving children wandered lost in the woods and maidens had their hearts carved out by jealous witches. Desiccated butterflies, with their tattered wings, clung like fairies to miniature branches. Scattered within the greenery of one were the delicate, yellowed bones of a small animal.

She found the bedroom at the end of a short hall, across from a bathroom no larger than a closet. The antique door knob turned with a squeal as the door opened on rusted hinges. Beth dropped her bag on the bed and gazed at the four walls. There were no windows in the room.

The metal framed bed took up one wall, and a scarred oak dresser rested across from it. Another cloche sat atop the dresser. This one held a miniature replica of the cottage, and a screen of tiny trees. Minuscule bits of rock trailed along the inside front of the glass, circling to the tree line.

She pressed her palm to the rough texture on the blank wall, then tapped across the area with her knuckles, expecting to hear a hollow sound. When she realized the missing window would have faced the edge of the forest outside, she shivered, grateful to have missed that view.

The pipes in the bathroom groaned and rusty liquid spun down the drain, the color like bloody water. Gagging, she retreated to the bedroom to undress and snuggle under the heavy patchwork quilt. She took one last check of her phone. No messages.

She woke from a dream that drifted from her memory like smoke. Cavernous darkness surrounded her. Beth fumbled for the bedside table and her phone. Her hands met open air. She stood. Sweeping her arms out, her fingers brushed across the textured wall. She traced her steps back to the bed, but somehow missed it. Her back thumped the far wall.

Her heart thudded. The taste of sour wine rose in her throat. She scooted sideways to the next corner, then to the next, and the next. Finally, her hip bumped against the dresser. She brushed her fingertips over the cloche’s cool, rounded glass. For a second, she closed her eyes and when she opened them, a window appeared in the wall.

The moonlight streaming through the opening revealed the dresser as the only furniture remaining. No door, no bed, no table, no purse, no luggage, no phone. A sound escaped her, half-gasp, half-laugh. Taking a breath, she shook her head. Cool air brought the clean scent of pine and juniper. The walls and ceiling of the room pressed upon her, as though they shrank with each breath she drew. Outside, the open expanse called to her. She climbed through the window.

Ahead, the tree branches dipped in the wind, waving her forward. When she came to the road, she strolled on, despite the bite of gravel under her bare feet. Tire marks dug into the soft earth of the shoulder. The accident had been miles back, but here, dark blotches dotted the grass. A path of flattened weeds led into the brush, as though something large had dragged itself from the road. The tree trunks at the edge of the forest held strange symbols carved into their bark. Runes, scratched into the pale inner wood. The hair rose on her arms.

“An animal,” Beth chanted. “It was an animal.” Her mind recalled the stooped figure rising in her headlights, two black shapes like horns sprouting from its head. A deer. Wouldn’t a person have cried out? It happened so fast – in the time it took for her to glance at the phone in her hand.

A strangled cry sounded, half moan, half growl, like no animal she had ever heard. Beth jumped and raced back to the cottage. If she didn’t look, she wouldn’t know.

The space was back to how she’d found it. Door straight ahead, bed to her right, with the covers thrown off as she’d left them. When she glanced behind her, the wall had closed. No more window. Rushing to the door, she jerked it open. Down the hallway, through the living area, to the front door and then outside again. She didn’t stop until she crashed into a solid barrier. Knocked off her feet, she moaned and crawled forward, one hand held out. Stumbling upright, she banged her fist against the hard, clear surface. Glass.

“No!” She crawled to the cottage and inside to the windowless room. The dresser top sat empty—the cloche gone. Her world tilted, the floor beneath her swaying like the deck of a ship. She fell. Scrambling to her feet, she spilled from the room, rushed down the hall and out the front door. A huge red eye stared at her, distorted by the curve in the glass. It placed the cloche, her world now, on the shelf, then left. At the doorway, the thing crouched and lifted its horned head. The silhouette was exactly how it had appeared in her headlights. Beth stumbled backwards into the cottage. She stretched out on the bed in the windowless room and closed her eyes at last.

The End

If you’d like to hear the story inspired by this one you can listen to Drew Blood’s podcast on YouTube here.

Facing Fire

September 5, 2025 ~ mstturpin ~ 5 Comments

Another NYC Midnight Story

This week I have a treat of a tale from one of my entries in the NYC Midnight Flash Fiction contest. For this unfortunate assignment, I received the challenge of writing a spy thriller story in 1,000 words or less. To top that off, the story had to include a flamethrower. I have forgotten what the third prompt was – just reading the story again brought flashbacks of the trauma induced by having only 48 hours to churn out something resembling a thriller. With a flamethrower.

I did not advance in that round, and the story stayed buried deep in my electronic files until now, when I have recovered enough from the embarrassment of writing it to allow it loose upon the world.

Ladies and Gentlefolk, I present to you:

Facing Fire: An undercover agent accepts a dangerous assignment to prove herself. When an unexpected threat occurs, she must face her fears in order to survive.

When I left the Navy, I swore the next time I set foot on a ship, it would be to cruise to some exotic location. I got the exotic part, but there’d be no poolside margaritas. Three weeks until Christmas, I stood on the dock in the Port of Santos, Brazil, and stared up at the 40,000 deadweight ton freighter that would be my home for the next twenty-six days.

The ship carried a crew of 25. In the time we would travel from Brazil to Baltimore, I had to determine which of them had ties to a terrorist organization, and which of the 9,000 containers on board held ten tons of cocaine they would sell to finance their operations. I would share a bunk with the only other woman on board—the medical purser, a petite black woman who spent her free time cross-stitching flowers and Bible verses on tea towels. She was either the most unlikely suspect or the one with the best cover.

I met Captain Burke my first day aboard. He was the only person who knew I belonged with the organization with three initials and not the merchant marine union.

“You’re here against my will, Miss Leary. I can’t afford an untested officer.”

I pulled at my sleeve to better hide the burn scars on my arm. “With all due respect, sir—for my last four years in the Navy, I served as Navigator. I can do the job.”

“Fine. As Third Mate, you’ll have the 4-8 watch when you’re not in the control room.”

Night watch meant 4:00 am. Not a problem—I hadn’t slept all night since before the accident that landed me at a desk. I’d fought for this job to prove myself capable of active duty again. I owed it to the ones who hadn’t survived that day.

A week passed, and I didn’t get any closer to identifying the terrorist or finding the drugs. Only one in ten of the huge metal boxes was searched in port, so the chances of its being picked at random were low. International maritime law ruled at sea. Domestic law enforcement had their hands tied until the ship docked. Not so for my group.

Halfway to Baltimore, I stood alone in the pitch-black early morning. Bundled against the cold, I shivered as the frigid salt spray hit my face. I gripped the handrail on the bridge and let my gaze roam over the white-tipped waves below. The stink of diesel didn’t cover the ocean’s saltwater scent. I turned at the sound of footsteps. The Chief Mate, Mark Simms, stopped beside me.

“Quiet night?” He tapped a cigarette from his pack and lit it.

“So far. I thought you weren’t on nights. Why the early stroll?”

“Couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d check, see if you needed help.”

I opened my mouth to ask why I’d need help when a noise sputtered through the silence. An outboard motor. Spotlights lit the gray water, illuminating a tiny craft zipping alongside the ship.

“Pirates!” Simms flipped his cigarette over the rail and took off. I thumbed my walkie-talkie and radioed the bridge. A klaxon alarm blasted. I imagined the crew stumbling like ants whose nest someone had kicked.

I jogged toward the stairs. Unarmed, I hoped I wouldn’t encounter any of the pirates. Halfway to safety, the ship went dark. Protocol— something we’d drilled on just the week before. The alarm died with a moan.

Footsteps pounded behind me. I spun to face a pack of men. One of them held a machete. These weren’t my fellow crew members. The lead guy had something strapped to his back, and the long, stick-like contraption he pointed at me wasn’t a rifle. I dived behind the nearest container. The night exploded in heat and orange light. The pirates were armed with flamethrowers.

With my back pressed against frost-covered metal, I shivered and let out a fog of breath. The cold reassured me I wasn’t on fire.

The pop of gunfire sounded. Someone screamed. I eased out from behind my cover. Five feet away, a body lay stretched on the deck in a pool of dark blood, flamethrower still strapped to his back. Ahead, the pirates had taken cover behind a stack of metal drums. Bullets pinged past. At any moment, the bad guys might turn and run for the stairs and the control room. I reached a hand to grasp the flamethrower and slip it from the body.

Motion in the cargo stacks drew my eye. Captain Burke crouched beside one container. He tugged on the straps holding the box, then startled when he noticed me. He should have been locked down in the control room.

Burke crept over to whisper, “What are you doing?” He reached to his side and drew out a pistol.

I shouldered the flamethrower, and before the pirates could charge, I aimed a burst of flame at the metal straps holding the nearest stack of containers. The straps glowed white hot, then snapped as the boxes tilted. They tumbled onto the deck, blocking the pirate’s escape.

With no way out, the bad guys surrendered. Captain Burke appeared at my side. He studied the collapsed containers with a look of relief. Once we secured the pirates in the freighter’s brig, I used my satellite phone to call in my suspicions.

Homeland Security and the DEA met the ship in Baltimore and arrested Burke. His first duty should have been to the crew. Instead, he fled to check on the cargo. One stack of containers in particular, and his look of relief when that load wasn’t the one that fell, gave me the idea that the drugs would be in the one he’d checked. Turns out I was right, and he was glad to exchange his testimony for immunity. He’d only been in it for the money.

Me, I’m booked on another ship. This one sails from Galveston to Cozumel. Warm sand, cold margaritas, and not a flamethrower in sight.