I've been pretty busy recently with other work and also with the traumas, so I've not written as many of these as I'd hope, but I have this short story that I wrote last winter and while it still needs a bit of work it's ok to share here I think.
Shed
Uma Breakdown, 2024
‘Are you going to call the cops you fucking pussy?’
The near side of shock collecting in the soft well of KC’s tummy. A tidal pool rose and fell with her opiate-soften breathing. This was too much though, and she couldn't contain a snort.
‘Ahaha- Ow ow, fuck, fuck. You’re not meant to make me laugh.’
‘Sorry, I forget how uncomfortable you are about slights to the carceral order.’
‘Haha-stop shut up, I’m serious, ah, those aren’t your best stitches. And you’re not that good anyway.’
Alice put down the empty iodine bottle she had been holding by the neck, her lanky 6’1” frame unfolded from the mock fighting posture that was almost certainly borrowed from the video games she played. KC watched in the mirror above the stirruped chair as the other woman checked the sutures before applying the adhesive gauze she had got up to retrieve from a pack of field dressings before the whole ‘Tier One Operator on 24 hour pass’ pantomime had begun.
As the taller woman smoothed the glued edged with practiced familiarity and a fastidiousness born of genuine care KC thought about how lucky she was to be in this place. To be beyond the immediate whims and grasp of the police proper and all those that would voluntarily, brutally, and gladly perform their function on the slimmest pretence of justification. Alice had lived here for nearly 2 years now, but KC knew that she still checked her go-bag above the back door at least every 4 weeks. There is no such thing as stasis, only the long tail of events preceding yet more events, none of which could be predicted or prepared for with certainty. It is all magic by degrees of competency.
Alice was looking down at her work, right hand absently drumming out button combos on the little steel medical trolley, making bloody tools rattle in a steel kidney bowl still bearing the etched name of the hospital it had been lifted from 5 years earlier.
‘You’re all set now Kacie-Kacie. I know this is your second time out here, but that was your appendix and while the principle is similar, the aftercare is a little different. Hope you’re feeling lucid because there’s a little quiz at the end. You feeling lucid? The psychic exploration part of the evening is over now so hopefully you found some things to bring home. hmm? I could go bring in some snow and fill the hydro tub if you want to try one of those manosphere cold plunge things as a wakeup?’
KC smiled as Alice went through the whole chatty shtick. It was partly functional to keep her present, partly just Alice’s relentless bullshit, but in the converted Nissen Hut it still felt like being re-welcomed into church.
‘Thankyou Dr Alice, that won’t be necessary. I am giving you my full and undivided attention.’
‘Uh huh? If you’re sure? Don’t want to try a little hotel-ice-bath-kidney-theft role play? Last chance?’
KC grinned again ‘No thankyou Dr Alice. I should get back and meet with the group before it gets too late.’
Alice looked back over her shoulder from where she was running the hot tap while the water heater kicked in. She squinted at the woman in the home stitched gown for a quick moment, then satisfied that the patient had crawled far enough out from under the hydrocodone, pointed with mock disappointment ‘Suit yourself.’
10 minutes later KC was carefully pulling her dark blue winter boots back on over the cuffs of the jeans she’d borrowed from the community wardrobe, pulling the black woollen sweater down to cover the hole below the right back pocket.
The lucky jeans. The same awful overdyed, oversized and shapeless garment allegedly worn by every other resident for this occasion. They were ugly on everyone which was as much the reason for the tradition as the smirking, tenuous explanation that the sagged ass and crotch meant you would easily slip one the modified jockstraps on underneath without anything rubbing. You might call it hazing under different circumstances, but it was as much of a grounding and complete part of the whole ritual. A little baptismal drag.
KC helped Alice load the autoclave, then the two headed back up the short trail to the main house, the taller woman insisting on carrying both rifles, and occasionally mock-supporting their other who scuffed through the new snow with the enforced gait of a clown, clutching a bloody jam jar.
After dinner the whole community gathered, and in the large knocked through hall KC stood up and told a story. She traced the feelings and gestures and dreams that had played out across the opening of that wound and the closing of so many others. A poem written sharp upon the veil and a vision loosened by cutting and opiates and spilled out to a room wet with tears.
Tomorrow she’d take the jar out to the range with a rifle, a gift for the forest. While that night as KC slept, it snowed a soft wrapping about the world.