“You come home from a relaxing vacation and realize you have the wrong suitcase.”
So this morning, my friend Manuel messaged me, something he often does. Today it was with a writing challenge.
Well, this was just what I was looking for.
I’m deep, deep into working on my behavior app, WeMinder, and getting to a really tough part.
So I could use a small distraction. I’ve had sudden fiction (short-short stories, 500 words maximum) on my mind lately.
So when he messaged me about this prompt, asking for a word count, I suggested 500 and I was all-in.
Here’s what I came up with:
The Top Bag
— by Mako Allen
The mistake had started with that last strawberry daiquiri. The ship was forty-five minutes out of port, his bag was packed, and despite it being the last morning, the bartender manned his usual post near the breakfast buffet.
“What the hell,” he’d thought. Then had not one, but two for breakfast. His shoulders were a little crisp with sunburn. As the cool drinks ran down his throat, that sharp ache receded into a dull murmur.
He’d lumbered off the ship, pulling his black, cloth, wheeled suitcase behind him. After a short cab ride, and an uneventful flight, he’d arrived in DC, and waited blearily by the carousel along with everyone else on the flight from Miami.
Maybe it was the dehydration, the sunburn, or the nap on the plane, but Leo was definitely feeling the beginnings of a hangover.
He grimaced as a loud klaxon sounded, and a whole flood of bags tumbled onto the carousel. Including two cases which were nearly identical, stacked one atop the other. Of course, he thought, that pattern of scuff marks made it clear which bag was his. So he took the top bag.
It was only after a $47 Uber ride, only after he had carefully unbuttoned and peeled off his Hawaiian shirt, that he realized he had made a mistake.
There was no luggage tag. And the bag was locked, with a combination lock.
Well, shit.
He called the airline, after fishing in his pockets for his bag check receipt, and spoke to someone in lost-luggage. They assured him they’d track down the case, and get back to him.
Leo sat on the bed, idly fumbling with the lock. On a whim, he tried a few combinations.
0-0-0-0 was a bust, as was 1-2-3-4.
He snorted immaturely, and tried 0-0-6-9. The lock popped open with an audible “click!”
Knowing he was only compounding his mistake, he unzipped the bag, and looked inside.
And gasped.
If this had been his bag, the top part would have contained his dirty t-shirts, nestled around a bottle of coconut rum. But in this bag it held… whips. Well, some were whips. They had long stringy tails, and thick braided handles. There were also paddles, and some sort of split thing that looked like a tongue.
The bottom of the case held very shiny black clothes, a corset, fishnet stockings, and impossibly long high heeled leather boots.
Deep inside one boot was tucked a pair of clearly-not-clean panties. Leo held them to his face, sniffing in deeply, and felt himself grow painfully erect.
He fished around inside the other boot, and came up with a business card.
“Mistress Jacqueline” it said, listing a Virginia phone number.
He grabbed his cellphone.
After one ring, a woman answered. “Hello?”
“M.. Jacqueline?” he asked. “I think I got your bag by mistake.”
“How did you get this number?” she asked.
Oh, fuck.
