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.

Afterlife Positions Available

August 22, 2025 ~ mstturpin ~ 2 Comments

A short story

I submitted the story below to a contest recently. It didn’t place so I’m sharing it now. In this one the genre was open and I was assigned two prompts that had to be included: career advisor and mosaic. I went with fantasy/magical realism with a humorous touch. I hope you like it, but if you don’t, please don’t tell me.

Afterlife Positions Available

An hour and ten minutes after Ellen Tyler collapsed into the koi pond at the Dallas Arboretum, she woke in a sterile white room. A fluorescent light buzzed overhead. Was this a waiting room, in a clinic or hospital? She hoped they took Medicare. Puzzled, she patted her chest. Her clothes – the same cargo pants and matching shirt she had dressed in that morning – were dry and clean.

Right before splashing in the pond, she had felt nauseous and dizzy. She had leaned over, snapping a photo of an orange carp, until a sharp pain in her arm made her drop her iPhone into the water. When she reached to retrieve it, she blacked out. Afterwards, blue and red flashing lights, shouting, and her sister Trina’s shocked face filled some of the blank spots in her memory.

The door on the other side of the room swung open and a tall, wide man filled the doorway. He wore a wrinkled gray suit and had the pleasant, smiling expression of a television weatherman predicting sunny weather.

“Hello! Sorry about the wait. We weren’t sure when you would arrive.” He stuck out his hand. “You must be Ellen. I’m Milton.”

Ellen squeezed the man’s hand. Then, not knowing what else to do, she followed him into his office. A dull metal desk filled one half of the room. Files, folders, and yellowed paper covered the desktop and overflowed onto the floor. Milton stooped and removed a cardboard box from his chair, then pulled over a wooden chair for Ellen.

The white walls held two posters—one had a photo of a kitten clinging to a clothesline and the words “Hang in There” scrolled across the top. The other sign featured a montage of at least thirty images. A sheet-covered cartoon ghost held the center square, surrounded by several other pictures that looked like they belonged on the covers of horror novels. There was a gnarled being with knife-sharp nails, a thin man with solid black eyes, and a transparent, shrouded figure. As she stared at the poster, one of the images, a woman clothed in a long black dress, waved at Ellen.

“Where the hell am I?” she asked.

Milton’s face turned red. “You’re not in…” He coughed, “…that other place.” He shuffled a stack of papers and pulled out a glossy brochure. Handing it to Ellen, he said, “This is the Career Placement Agency for the Afterlife.”

“Wait.” Ellen fanned herself with the flyer. “I’m dead?” How could this be? She had celebrated her 71^st birthday last month, but she had also received a perfect checkup from her doctor.

“You expired this afternoon.” Milton laced his fingers together. “Heart attack and drowning.”

How embarrassing. Ellen always assumed she would pass quietly in her sleep at age 101. What a ruckus she must have caused. Trina would never forgive her for insisting on tromping around in the summer heat instead of enjoying an afternoon matinee in an air-conditioned movie theater. Her sister loved the movies. Trina would have to find someone else to share her senior discount pass at Movie Plex.

“I thought the afterlife was filled with harps and angels, not work.” Ellen held up the brochure. The cartoon ghost from the wall poster graced the cover. The title, written in Comic Sans font, read “Guiding Your Choice for Eternity—A Mosaic of Diverse Opportunities.”

“These experiences are designed to bring purpose to your life after death. I’m here to guide you in choosing which form your spirit will take.” Milton pointed behind him, to the collage of images. “Each afterlife represents at least one of our six core skills—comfort, entertainment, education, inspiration, caution, and remembrance. For example, you could choose Lady of the Lake or ectoplasm entity.”

“I drowned in the damn koi pond, Milton. I can’t imagine haunting knee-deep water for the rest of my time. And that ecto thing just looks like a blob of green goo.”

“You have leftover anger issues. Maybe a spot as a poltergeist?”

Ellen huffed. “Spend eternity chunking pots and pans in someone’s kitchen?”

“It’s not just pan chunking.” Milton sat up straight. “It’s entertainment.” When Ellen didn’t respond, he continued. “Do you like travel? I have an opening for a Vanishing Hitchhiker.”

“Can I give it a trial run?”

Milton clapped his hands. “Of course! I’ll see you back in a week.”

After the first three nights of waiting on a desolate country road for a car to pass by, Ellen wished that time would pass more quickly in the afterlife. The fourth night, a farmer in a rusted pickup with bad shocks gave her a ride. Grateful for the company, she forgot to vanish, and rode with him into town. She had to walk the six miles back to her post.

When the week was up, she met with Milton again. Her past wasn’t dark enough to qualify her as a revenant. She wasn’t deeply melancholic, so wraith would not be a good fit. She would end up a ghost orb, floating over a swamp and being mistaken for a ball of gas.

“What else is there?” Ellen pointed to the cartoon ghost in the collage. “How about that one, but without the sheet?”

Milton sighed. “I hoped to place you in an entertainment or inspiration position. Most of the other careers require a commitment to a static location.”

“That’s fine. And I know a perfect place.”

Ellen floated along at Movie Plex, creating cold spots in the ladies’ restroom and leaving the scent of popcorn in newly cleaned theaters. Her sister bought a ticket the second week, for the new Tom Cruise flick. Ellen settled in the empty seat next to her and whispered, “Hello.” When Trina turned her head to peer at the vacant spot, Ellen waited until the air conditioning kicked on with a burst of cold, then brushed a strand of hair from her sister’s face.

“Well. Hello,” Trina said, and smiled.

THE END

A Bookstore Tour and a Story

August 8, 2025 ~ mstturpin ~ 1 Comment

Back in March of this year my friend Cathy and I embarked on a road trip to visit several bookstores. If you stick around to the end of the list of places we visited, I’ll reward you with a short story.

We stopped first in Waco at Fabled Bookshop and Cafe. I had heard they have a secret entrance to the children’s book area but we were so engrossed in our own book search that I forgot to look for it. If you make it to Waco, be sure to stop in here and check out the Narnia type wardrobe door into the kid’s section.

https://fabledbookshop.com/

We spent the evening in Austin, and shopped at Birdhouse Books.

There were lots of welcoming faces here. Birdhouse Books is a woman-owned, queer-owned, veteran-owned store that focuses on giving back to the community.

https://www.birdhousebooksatx.com/

The next day we rose early and headed to Lockhart, Texas to visit Haunt Happy Books – a horror themed bookstore. We also had barbecue for lunch, a requirement in the barbecue capital of Texas. At Black’s we had brisket, and I was thankful that jackalope wasn’t on the menu.

While we waited for Haunt Happy Books to open for the afternoon, we walked around the square and found an unexpected stop – Colossus Books. I picked up a first edition by Charles Bukowski for my husband.

https://www.colossusbooks.com/

The red door at the back of the store made me think of the hidden wardrobe door at Fabled, but on closer inspection I saw this sign and thought better of trying to open it.

We heeded the warning and did not exit through this door.

Our last stop on the book tour was Haunt Happy Books. As a horror writer, I was thrilled to find a store that featured so much horror! I found all my favorite authors here, and discovered a couple new to me. So many books and so little discretionary funds leads to hard decisions. (They would not take my soul in exchange for a stack of hardcovers)

https://www.instagram.com/haunthappybooks

The entrance to Haunt Happy is down a set of stairs and into the basement that houses the store.

Did they mean to spell out “Hello?” Maybe they ran out of balloons. Don’t be suspicious.

I picked up some books while waiting for the movie to start.

Yes, even the horror store has a children’s section. Gotta start them young.

If you’ve made it this far into the post, thanks for sticking around. As promised, here’s a flash fiction short story I wrote a couple years back for the NYC Midnight contest. For these challenges, the writer is assigned a genre and prompts that must be included in the story. It makes for some mind-stretching creativity, especially when you only have 48 hours to write a complete tale. For this one my genre was Spy Thriller and I had to include a blank check. There was a third prompt as well, but I don’t remember what it was. The story had to be under 1,000 words, not including the title. I’ve added a couple here, to fill in a missing bit that one of the contest judges pointed out.

I have folders filled with these contest stories. Some of them I’ll edit and include in a book of short stories, but the ones where the genre is not within my usual type of writing I had been stumped to figure out how to get some use from them. Then I remembered my neglected blog/website. I’ll post an odd story here now and then. For now enjoy this one.

A Dish Too Cold by Terrye Turpin

The invitation appeared Thursday afternoon. The gold script on the card didn’t tell me why I’d been picked to attend the gala for Ken Hollister. Hardy and I had worked with him in Panama, 1990. There weren’t many people left who knew about that time. On paper, he worked for the General Services Administration. Unofficially, that other alphabet agency employed him. Rumor was, Hollister had arranged recent defections of Russian military officers. I wandered down the hall to my boss, Hardy, Special Agent in Charge.

“Hollister is retiring?” I tapped the envelope on Hardy’s desk.

“Yep. Enjoy the party.”

“You’re not going?” Despite their history, Hardy could have put it behind. A decade had passed since Rita, Hardy’s first wife, had divorced him and then married Ken Hollister two years later.

My boss spread his hands. “Only one invitation. We must make sacrifices.”

“Thanks.” I grimaced. “Promise me you won’t embarrass me like this when I quit.”

“Jack, old dogs like us don’t leave.”

“I’ll dust off my black suit.”

“Dust off more than that.” Hardy tossed me a thick folder. “There are threats on Hollister’s life.”

“The spooks aren’t taking care of it?”

“Hollister requested you.”

Of course. He needed someone he could trust, someone who shared memories of the same humid jungle. Someone he thought would owe him a debt. I flipped through the folder. Photos and printed dossiers on the guests. I recognized a four-star general and a Hollywood movie actress. A lot of wealth and influence crammed between a fold of cardboard.

As I stood to leave, Hardy grabbed something from behind his desk. “Wait. Can’t forget the gift.” He handed me a blank check, framed behind glass.

I squinted at the signature. “You’re kidding me.”

“A good forgery makes an interesting present. Or maybe it’s the real thing.”

I left Hardy staring out his window. How much would a blank check signed by J. Edgar Hoover be worth? I’d better take my suit to the cleaners. It would do for the fancy party. Or a funeral.

Saturday evening, I handed my Ford over to the valet and climbed the steps to Hollister’s Virginia mansion. The gala was in full swing. Light sparkled from the chandeliers and reflected off the polished marble entry. Laughter blended with the soft notes of a harp. I recognized the Russian harpist from her dossier. Alina Petrov. She and her husband, Nicolai, an opera tenor, had defected in 2010. I wondered if Hollister had a hand on that. He’d always been a sucker for beautiful women, especially if they were with another man. She rested the harp against one slim shoulder. Her hands flitted like doves across the strings.

Weaving through the crowd, I spotted Rita, Hollister’s wife.

“Jack!” She grasped my hand. “It’s been too long. I’m glad you’re here.” She looked over my shoulder as though searching for someone else.

“I’m the designated representative tonight. Hardy gave me his invitation.” I wondered how much she knew about the threat. Her makeup didn’t hide the dull blue circles under her eyes. The last time I’d seen Rita, her hair had been bright russet. She’d stopped dying it, and it topped her head in a snow-white crown that suited her. Older now, but hell, so were we all. Me, Ken, Hardy, and Rita.

“It’s good to see you.” I held up the framed check. “Hardy sends his regards. Where should I put this?”

“Oh.” Rita traced a finger across the glass. “That Hardy! Hoover! Ken will love this.”

I followed her to their library. Wrapped and unwrapped gifts were stacked on an oak table in the center of the room. I set the blank check next to a bottle of cognac older than me, then made for the open bar.

Carrying my drink, I wandered through the open French doors to the garden. The heavy scent of cigar smoke hung in the air. I followed the sound of male laughter, past plants drooping with crimson puffs of flowers. The copper red leaves, large as my hand, seemed familiar.

“Jack!” Hollister grabbed my arm and pulled me into a hug. “Which one of these bastards is trying to kill me?” Slurring his words, he motioned to the three men standing around him. Hollister’s sour breath stank of whiskey. The men shuffled their feet and laughed nervously before leaving to go back to the house. Hollister pulled me away.

“Seriously, Jack. I’m glad you’re here.” Red veins traced the whites of his eyes. Under his golf course tan, Hollister’s crepey skin had a sallow cast. “I can’t trust anyone but the old guard,” he said.

Taking his arm, I led him back inside. I left him with a group in conversation with the Hollywood actress while I went to find some coffee to sober him up. I passed the library as Alina Petrov stormed out, slamming the door. A red mark bloomed on her cheek. I located a coffee pot, a fancy contraption that ground the beans and heated the water instantly. I stared at the beans and suddenly remembered where I’d seen the plant with the copper red leaves.

In the few minutes I’d been gone, Hollister had disappeared. Alina took up the harp again, this time to accompany her husband as his voice soared through an aria. I pushed people aside, ignoring their protests, and headed for the library. I found Rita standing over Ken as he held the framed check.

“Can you spot a fake?” He flipped the frame and picked at the staples on the back.

“You shouldn’t be here, Jack.” Rita handed a letter opener to her husband.

“Don’t open it!” I grabbed the check and yanked it away.

“What we had was real.” Hollister’s lip trembled. “But I’ve lost her. She’s going back to him, after all this time.”

Nothing breaks up a party like attempted murder. The cops arrived, and I explained my suspicions. The check tested positive for ricin. Rita confessed. Hardy had offered the solution—a grim recipe using the castor plants in her garden. She supplied the beans, he ground them and dusted the check. Her job? Make sure Hollister opened the frame. Death, however, was a dish too cold for me.

New Year New Goals

December 31, 2021 ~ mstturpin ~ 6 Comments

Unlike my friend here, I don’t have an excuse for not writing more.

The past year has been a series of “if only” – If only I didn’t have to work full time, if only I had more time, if only I had a dedicated writing space, and on and on and on.

It’s the end of the year and I’m still working a full time job. We have bills to pay, just like most people I know. Whenever I begin to feel sorry for myself and wish for more time, I remember reading about Ray Bradbury toiling away each night, writing short stories after he worked to support his family. He wrote Fahrenheit 451 on a rented typewriter, in the basement of the UCLA library. I have a laptop I could take anywhere to write – including my office in the house we bought this year.

I’m grateful to the group of writing friends I’ve made. I wouldn’t have completed the works I have done this year if it hadn’t been for their support and encouragement.

With 2022 upon us, I’m wishing for a more productive year for everyone. In the meantime, here’s a link below to an older short story of mine that I think turned out well.

Old Long Since

Happy New Year!