That Time Martin Strunk Met His Own Creation

This story was submitted to Reedsy's weekly writing contest for May 16th. The prompt was: "Center your story around a mix-up that leads to huge (or unexpected) consequences."

I wake from a fitful sleep and try opening my eyes.

I’m mostly blinded by a very large, very close light fixture dangling above my head. In the darkness beyond its harsh glare, I make out metallic walls. Like the light, they’re pushed in close. There’s a shelf of some kind to my right, I think, but its contents are formless blobs of shadow. There’s an acrid smell in the air.

I’m uncomfortable. I’ve just noticed I’m laying down, and not in my bed. Why would I be? I’m clearly not in my bedroom. I’m on a cold, hard surface in the center of this strange room and I seem to be elevated a good distance off the floor. As I try lifting my head, I notice the straps. My head, chest, wrists, and ankles are bound.

I’m in a strange room strapped to a table.

How the hell did this happen?

I wish I could say this is the first time I woke up somewhere bizarre. I have deep pockets and a penchant for a good time. It’s only natural I’d wake up in strange places – beds, floors, bathrooms, alleyways. Dumpsters every now and then. A Southwest flight a few times (why does Drunk Me always book Southwest?). The worst was waking up in another country. Berlin, Germany, to be precise. Lost a lot of respect for both the American and German air travel industries that day. How many people have to fail at their job for a raging alcoholic to get blitzed in New Jersey, travel to the airport, buy a ticket, board an international flight, pass through customs, enter a major city, and wake up in a hotel room with a prostitute remembering none of it? Believe me, I had a long chat with Southwest customer service after that.

This feels different though. Bound but not in the sexy way to which I’m accustomed. My heart starts racing. I can’t catch my breath. I pull against my restraints.

Seriously, how the hell did I get here?

My blackout brain is usually quick to piece together a rough estimate of my shenanigans, even if the full picture remains lost to the histories. It takes some focus though, so I hunker down and try.

The last thing I remember is a party. My publisher was there, my team of editors, my assistant. We were at a bar. As per her custom, my mom attended and sat away from the group scowling. “I both support you and find you ridiculous and immature,” her actions convey. I know that for sure because she likes speaking those exact words to me. Assorted hangers-on – too self-interested and unlikeable to be called friends – rounded out the guest list.

It was a party for me. No, a party for my latest release, Earth Force 5: Return to Earth. Record pre-orders, a fresh movie deal for Earth Force 4 through 6, and the strongest opening weekend of any of my novels. We were definitely partying.

So, blacking out makes sense. Basking in adoration brings that side out. But, how’d I get here? And where is here, exactly?

I picture myself at the party, grasp for anything specific that might give me a clue, but there’s nothing. I must’ve gone hard even for me. The silver lining is all this noodling is it’s keeping me from devolving into a full blown panic attack. As I wonder, I settle into a manageable state of anxiety homeostasis.

…Which is shattered by the slamming of a door.

I’m no longer alone in this room. Two dark shapes slide towards me. My straps feel unbearably tight.

As the shapes step into the light, my fear vanishes. I laugh. I laugh so hard my nose runs and tears stream down my cheeks.

Standing before me are two members of the Glorp race of aliens. Or, they would be if Glorps actually existed. Their hulking, blue, Grimace-from-McDonald’s-like appearance was conjured by yours truly. They’re the primary antagonists in my Earth Force books.

“Oh man,” I wheeze as the laughter subsides. “This is just incredible. Who’s in those suits? Jerry? Rich? Where’d they come from, anyway?” Words are sprinting out of my mouth and I can’t stop them. Side effect of panic, I guess. “Hope they’re licensed not knock-off! I don’t remember Glorp suits in the latest merch report. Are they new? Is this your way of pitching them, Jerry?”

Left and Right Glorp share a three-eyed glance, then Left Glorp mashes a button on the gizmo in his hand.

Every muscle seizes as electric current arcs through my body. It’s gone as quickly as it came, and I’m left writhing in agony. I don’t know what to say, but what comes out isn’t a surprise.

“What the fuck, Jerry?!”

Right Glorp and Probably Not Jerry burble to each other. Right Glorp holds up a device and, when he burbles at me, the device speaks a mechanized English.

“You are Martin Strunk. Is this correct?”

The answer is yes but the question is complicated. I like to think a prank by my friends – dickheads they may be – would not involve electrocution. I am Martin Strunk, but who are the people in the Glorp suits?

The device drones again when Not Jerry burbles. “You are Martin Strunk. Is this correct?”

“Yes,” I say, winded. One quick shock and my body feels like it’s been sprinting for the last hour. “Who are you? I need to know who to fire, sue, or both.”

My assailants commune quietly and their little device remains silent. They sound like a dryer full of soaked towels. After their little pow wow, their attention returns to me.

“We wish to ask questions. You answer or we press button.” He waves the button in his pudgy, three-digit hand.

I nod. Please don’t press button.

“How you learn of – ?” This last word is more burbling.

“I’m sorry, I don’t speak flushing toilet.”

Button.

Shock.

Pain.

The Glorps are conferring when I regain a sense of myself.

“We are called –” That word again. He puts a three-fingered mitt on his chest to illustrate. “We come from Planet –, so we are called –.”

When I say nothing, they confer again. Right Glorp mashes several buttons on his translator thing and then toilet-flushes at it. It speaks slowly.

“Wiiiiib Woooooob.”

He speaks again, and it translates again. “We are called Wibwobs. We come from Planet Wibwob.”

I’m getting annoyed by this charade. Surely the veritable horse is beaten good and to death at this point.

“I give, you guys,” I say, feigning a nonchalance that I really wish I felt right now. “This was a hoot. Take off the masks and drinks are on me.”

“How do you know of we the Wibwobs?”

I sigh. What is this bullshit and why don’t the people who know me have even a passing familiarity with my work? “You’re Glorps, morons. At least do some basic research.”

“How do you know of we the Wibwobs?”

“Hey! Dipshits! You’re called Glorps.”

“We are from Wibwob.”

“You are from Earth Force.”

“We are from Wibwob.”

“You are from a pot dream I had once!” My head pounds and my heart races. I can’t take much more of this stupid prank. I can’t take any more of these restraints. I pull hard against them.

Button again.

More shock.

More pain.

The Glorps loom over me now. Their translation device with its buzzy voice sits on the table next to my left ear.

“What the fuck is going on?” I whisper. Tears are welling in my eyes. This is really not funny.“Who are you? Why are you doing this?” I sound a good deal more desperate than I mean to.

“Wibwobs. We want to know how you know of we Wibwobs.”

“You’re my own creation, I swear.” They keep asking about how I know – maybe this is an insane prank by someone who thinks I stole their idea? “No plagiarism, no ChatGPT, nothing like that. The Glorps, renegade hero Zade McKinney, evil Glorp King Bunderchud, all of it.”

The Glorps – or Wibwobs, if they’re going to keep insisting – make a louder, more aggressive burble now. The translator buzzes.

“Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha.”

“What’s funny?”

“We enjoy this King Bunderchud. He is silly version of President –. This is not answer to question. How you know of Wibwobs? How you learn of invasion?”

“It’s a story, goddammit! I didn’t learn of anything. I just wrote a fucking stupid story about fucking stupid aliens!”

The Wibwobs talked it over. “This does not compute. You cannot invent Wibwobs or Wibwob invasion or President –. You must have source. Reveal source or I will press again.” He wags the button.

It’s dawning on me that, just maybe, my assumption that these are guys in costumes might not be correct. Maybe it’s being electroshocked three times, but I’m no longer dismissing the theory that these are real aliens.

“So you, the Wibwobs, are invading Earth. And you think I wrote Earth Force and invented the Glorps to, what, warn earth about your invasion?”

Burble. “Yes.”

“Is there a Wibwob word for ‘coincidence’?”

“Yes, but books are too accurate. – is not possible explanation.”

He shakes the button. “Reveal source or you must die.”

“There isn’t one.”

“Reveal source.”

“I made it up.”

“Reveal source.”

“Ok, you got me, it was…” I mimic their burbling. They clearly don’t buy it.

“Final. Reveal source.”

A tear falls down my cheek. Surprisingly, I think of my mother, but not her usual tidal wave of scorn. She’s holding me as I cry into a pile of rejection letters. I remember her soft words, her smell. How she kept me alive while my dream of writing kept dying around me.

I have no answer.

Button.

Shock.

Pain.

And then… nothing.

A Divine Puzzle

 This story was submitted to Reedsy's weekly writing contest for Feb. 7th. The prompt was: "Set your story in a place where the weather never changes."

His walking stick stabbed the snow, drilling for a semblance of purchase beneath the drifts. He pulled his collar tighter around his face as icy gusts slashed at his skin.

Everyone knew she was up here. You could see it for miles – a strange circle of sunny green atop the clouded white of the winter mountain, like an oasis in a desert. Everyone knew and nobody did anything. For three years. And everyone froze.

So, he was on the mountain, finally doing something.

As he topped the next rise, panting through frozen sweat, he saw the garden. Thick broadleaves ringed a field of veridian dotted with flowers. Birds chirped contentment and butterflies drifted lazily. In the middle of the field was a stump, and atop the stump, she sat.

He steeled himself, then stepped into the warmth of a perfect spring morning.

"Why are you here?" Before he knew it, he was standing beside her, and the melody of her voice played like a symphony through the field. He took her in – face and features more vibrant than he'd ever seen, hair at once shining gold, burning auburn, and deep chestnut. She wore a dress of colors both innumerable and beyond description.

He fell to his knees, placed his forehead to the grass. “Your Reverence."

A hand swatted the back of his head. “Oh, do get up." Annoyance sang through the field.

He stood. She sat upon her stump, legs crossed at the knees and a glare in her eyes. "What do you want?"

"Your Majesty – " he paused, removed his hat and used it to wipe the sweat from his brow. “Majesty, I – uh – I'm here on behalf of the people in the valley, just there." He pointed. She didn't look. "I bring dire news."

She waved a hand. "I don't care."

"Majesty, please. We've been in the grips of winter for three full years. People are freezing and starving to death, you must – “

"I must? I must what, exactly?!" She was on her feet. Lightning split a sky that turned instantly, ominously dark.

He prostrated himself again and begged forgiveness. She slapped him again, and the looming storm was gone when he reached his feet.

A stump appeared next to hers. “Sit."

He sat.

"Don't talk."

He didn't.

They sat together in silence a while, her forlorn expression fixed ahead, his knees vibrating with anxiety. More than once he turned just slightly, prepared to ask his favor of the goddess. Storm clouds rumbled from nowhere with each movement, so each time he kept silent. What did she want? Not his plea, that much was certain. But she also hadn’t thrown him back down the mountain or smote him where he stood. She even conjured him a stump.

"You're lucky," she said finally. The comment was clearly an invitation, but, when he said nothing – refused even to move – she added, “you can talk now."

A fire of anger lit within him. His courage joined it. "Lucky? Your Reverence, my people dying.” He softened his tone, forced a measure of fealty. “Please, I’ve come to beg you to save us. Bring us our first spring in years."

She waved a dismissive hand. He could talk, just not about that.

"But, Your Holiness..." She dismissed him again. He realized then how small he must be, mortal standing before a god. Creation before Creator.

She gestured overdramatically and he finally noticed what, he guessed, he was supposed to notice upon his arrival. The object of her consternation lay in the grass before her feet. A contraption, of sorts. It was a wooden block, painted white and shaped like a triangle. Small holes dotted its broad face, two of which were filled with brightly colored pegs made of a smooth material he’d never before seen. More of the pegs littered the grass next to the block. A quick count revealed enough to occupy all but one of the holes.

“What is it?" he asked.

She sighed. "It's a puzzle.”

He wondered at this new godly artifact. What purpose did it serve? What would happen if the goddess solved it? He decided to ask as much.

“It’s a puzzle,” she repeated, annoyed. “You solve it.”

“But to what end?”

She rolled her eyes. He thought he heard her mutter something about “simple mortals”.

“Is it Holy? Can it bring us spring?”

The spontaneous thunderclouds were back. “No, you dolt! It’s a puzzle. You just try and do it. And I’m stumped.”

“Stumped?”

“Yes,” she sighed, her features contorted in a hopeless pout. When she noticed him staring, the glare returned.

"Is this why you’re here?" he asked, only just preventing himself from adding “instead of doing your job?” He understood the need for deference in dealing with any god – let alone the god holding the fate of his people in her very distracted hands – but his capacity for deference drained with every word she spoke.

"Yes. The stupid thing is driving me crazy." She fixed her glare on the puzzle again as if a strong enough stare would force its obedience. Maybe it would. What did he know about gods?

“But why here, Your Lordship? Why leave the heavens?”

She laughed then, a beautiful melody bathing the meadow in liquid joy. “Because the gods are no help whatsoever.” A past version of him would argue, but present circumstances had him nodding his agreement. “Plus their incessant bickering was too much of a distraction. I mean, who cares who’s late to what shift or who’s not ‘putting the work in’ or whatever? We’re gods! If a world breaks we can just regrow it no problem.” He felt like an ant in its hill.

A new strategy came to him, “surely your fellow gods miss you after three years? And surely the God of Winter grows weary working so long uninterrupted?”

That handwave again. “He likes to show off."

He joined her in glaring at the triangle, then sensed an opportunity.

“Your Eminence, perhaps I could assist you with it.”

"You?" she huffed. "A god can’t solve this. What use do you think you'll be?"

"Another set of eyes never hurt,” he said as he lifted the puzzle from the grass. “Why don't you explain it to me?" She regarded him as dull thunder rumbled in the distance. It passed, and then she snatched the block from him and added the pegs.

"There's one empty space, see?" She held it up, pointed to the only hole without a peg. "You remove pegs by jumping adjacent ones over them into an empty hole." She demonstrated. "The goal is to remove all but one of the pegs. I've gotten down to two a couple times, but they're never next to each other so I can't make a final jump."

"That's it?"

"Yes."

"And you've been stuck for three years?"

She sneered. "Try it, mortal."

He did, and ran out of jumps with four pegs remaining.

"Wait," he said. He set it up and tried again. Three. Then four. Then four again. Then three again. He growled. She hooted.

“Hang on. Can I change which hole is empty at the start?”

“Sure, change it. Won’t help.”

He did. Three. Changed it again. Five. Changed it again. Three.

And so, the battle for the fate of his people raged. Not a warrior standing against armies, or a prince negotiating with deities. Just a sweaty-palmed man sticking pegs in a block.

Three hours passed before he finished with two for the first time.

"Baha!" he jumped up, pumped a fist.

She rolled her eyes. "Now's when it gets difficult." He rebuilt the puzzle and attacked it with a renewed sense of determination. Five.

His movements grew more frenzied as the sun slunk towards the horizon.

Three. Three. Four. Three. Two! Four. Five. Three.

He cursed. Kicked the block, flung the pegs. Collapsed onto his stump, defeated.

The song of her laughter was a balm. "At least it's not just me."

She clapped him on the knee and stood, the indescribable colors of her dress shimmering in the sunlight. "Thanks for the laugh. I'm going to head back to work."

“Wait, what?” he said. “Just like that?”

She chuckled. “Yeah. Watching you utterly fail at this has given me some perspective. I think we could both use a break.” She rested a warm palm on his shoulder and bent down until her eyes were level with his. “You can have your spring now.”

"No!" He roared. She sat – fell, really – back on her stump.

"No." he repeated. "It must be solved."

She considered this for only a moment before a broad smile split her face. "I'll get the pegs!" she announced and dashed into the field. He scooped up the block and began to diagram the next approach in his head.

In the centuries that followed, in those moments of brief respite from the snow and frigid wind, when the haze ebbed and heavy clouds parted, people emerged from the warmth of their burrows and marveled at the mysterious green spot atop the winter mountain. It was said their salvation was trapped there, and if they could just free it, the snow would melt and their land would turn to paradise. Inevitably, a zealous few every generation made the trek to the top, but none ever returned.

And winter never left.