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Sometimes The Mountain Buries You is a queer novella about the monster that threatens your attempt at a much-needed quiet life. Check out the about page here.
The librarian helps Murre print out and post poems across town. The librarian is very excited to have a poet in the residency and you yield to their invitation to Murre's first and then second event. Murre is, in fact, a very good poet. You offer to walk them back to their cabin and they shrug.
"There really demand for a resident veterinarian here?"
"Town's small for it but the ranches keep me occupied."
"Right." They're quiet and kicking rocks as they walk, you can see the turn of cogs in their brain.
"And you?"
They rub the back of their neck and smile crooked. "Depends. Well. Whatever bussing tables or pouring coffee I can get." They look at you, considering something, head tilted. You've noticed they don't really look straight at a person. "Street medic mostly. Like in places with streets that need medic'ing." Town and the communities dotting the region aren't the sorts of places with streets that would occupy a medic. They don't really have streets even.
"And you wound up with nowhere to stay because..."
"Oh I'm usually way out," they point with their entire arm in one direction, "uhhh," then corrected sixty degrees to the right. "Don't know so many people in these parts. I've been trying to get back but then winter and then no one's headed that way?" Most people driving the highways and backroads were going to the next biggest city and then back to whichever nearby town. Conversely, it sounded like Murre was going very far.
You near the artist cabin. "Have you met the trail medic yet?"
"You've got a trail medic here?" they heave. "No coffee shop and three docs? I really don't serve a need here." They walk past a poem of theirs on a telephone pole. An addendum poster invites everyone to visit any of the many events running throughout the two weeks of Murre's stay.
"You really shouldn't be here."
They duck their head and grimace, "yeahhh."
The next time you see Murre they are kicking down the door of your office carrying a dog—the Gutierrez' dog Lady—that was not having his best day. Before you can get upset about the door, you're ushering them into one of the examination rooms.
"Chasing a chipmunk or something. Face met fence and then leg met fence while panicking." They had evidently freed the dog's leg with little evident injury involved but the wires embedded in the dog's face let you know Murre has their multitool still. "They're real in there and pulling them out sounded like a bad idea."
You barely breathe an 'ahuh', busy examining the situation with a calming hand on Lady's shoulder. "Hold him a minute." You prep light sedation and when you take over the calming hold from Murre's bare hand you nod your head in a direction you don't need to look. "Nitrile gloves are over there."
You don't always work alone—you often work with ranchers—but you don't have an assistant. It's handy having someone who can apparently jog across town carrying an 80lb dog and who you hope has decent sanitary practices. They sit with Lady while you call the Gutierrez family.
Murre runs a workshop attended by the widest possible range of ages in town—well-attended after Murre's Lady rescue. You don't want to awkwardly navigate a conversation with both Murre and your friend the librarian who is very excited to have a poet in the residency in front town people lingering afterward, so you wait for Murre to skip across the street and find the gas station general store closed. "They close at five." "Ah." "Need something?" "Not really."
"Talk?"
They drop their shoulders and pocket their hands. "Okay," they acquiesce. You get the feeling the guilt of their mistake and owning up to said mistake makes for some obligation here for them. They really wish they hadn't made their way back to town. They don't know how to make up for it.
"Where does street medic training happen?" They weren't expecting this particular direction of talk. "Me? A few street medic organizations. Out here some but mostly back..." they're not calling it home, you can understand that.
"Anything formal?" They stare hard at the road's middle distance. "Life support CPR. Bloodborne pathogen. Opioid poisoning response." Their list is done and you're drawing in a breath for your next question when they say, "I don't think I like where this is going."
You do your best to read their expression and 'frustrated' is the best you can do. "You need cash right? To get out of here," and for groceries, "and groceries. Whatever time you can spare at the clinic and then some days up at the ranches when your residency is up." You're already second second-guessing every line of reasoning that lead to the offer. You trip over yourself to say, "if you don't already have something lined up."
"It's a couple months until fruit picking season."
"Right." The fruit orchards and farms in the valley around and sprawling away from the nearest city hired hundreds of workers for fruit picking season. You're familiar with some portion hewing akin Murre.
"That's a yes."
"Ah! Right."
The librarian helps Murre print out and post poems across town. The librarian is very excited to have a poet in the residency and you yield to their invitation to Murre's first and then second event. Murre is, in fact, a very good poet. You offer to walk them back to their cabin and they shrug.
"There really demand for a resident veterinarian here?"
"Town's small for it but the ranches keep me occupied."
"Right." They're quiet and kicking rocks as they walk, you can see the turn of cogs in their brain.
"And you?"
They rub the back of their neck and smile crooked. "Depends. Well. Whatever bussing tables or pouring coffee I can get." They look at you, considering something, head tilted. You've noticed they don't really look straight at a person. "Street medic mostly. Like in places with streets that need medic'ing." Town and the communities dotting the region aren't the sorts of places with streets that would occupy a medic. They don't really have streets even.
"And you wound up with nowhere to stay because..."
"Oh I'm usually way out," they point with their entire arm in one direction, "uhhh," then corrected sixty degrees to the right. "Don't know so many people in these parts. I've been trying to get back but then winter and then no one's headed that way?" Most people driving the highways and backroads were going to the next biggest city and then back to whichever nearby town. Conversely, it sounded like Murre was going very far.
You near the artist cabin. "Have you met the trail medic yet?"
"You've got a trail medic here?" they heave. "No coffee shop and three docs? I really don't serve a need here." They walk past a poem of theirs on a telephone pole. An addendum poster invites everyone to visit any of the many events running throughout the two weeks of Murre's stay.
"You really shouldn't be here."
They duck their head and grimace, "yeahhh."
The next time you see Murre they are kicking down the door of your office carrying a dog—the Gutierrez' dog Lady—that was not having his best day. Before you can get upset about the door, you're ushering them into one of the examination rooms.
"Chasing a chipmunk or something. Face met fence and then leg met fence while panicking." They had evidently freed the dog's leg with little evident injury involved but the wires embedded in the dog's face let you know Murre has their multitool still. "They're real in there and pulling them out sounded like a bad idea."
You barely breathe an 'ahuh', busy examining the situation with a calming hand on Lady's shoulder. "Hold him a minute." You prep light sedation and when you take over the calming hold from Murre's bare hand you nod your head in a direction you don't need to look. "Nitrile gloves are over there."
You don't always work alone—you often work with ranchers—but you don't have an assistant. It's handy having someone who can apparently jog across town carrying an 80lb dog and who you hope has decent sanitary practices. They sit with Lady while you call the Gutierrez family.
Murre runs a workshop attended by the widest possible range of ages in town—well-attended after Murre's Lady rescue. You don't want to awkwardly navigate a conversation with both Murre and your friend the librarian who is very excited to have a poet in the residency in front town people lingering afterward, so you wait for Murre to skip across the street and find the gas station general store closed. "They close at five." "Ah." "Need something?" "Not really."
"Talk?"
They drop their shoulders and pocket their hands. "Okay," they acquiesce. You get the feeling the guilt of their mistake and owning up to said mistake makes for some obligation here for them. They really wish they hadn't made their way back to town. They don't know how to make up for it.
"Where does street medic training happen?" They weren't expecting this particular direction of talk. "Me? A few street medic organizations. Out here some but mostly back..." they're not calling it home, you can understand that.
"Anything formal?" They stare hard at the road's middle distance. "Life support CPR. Bloodborne pathogen. Opioid poisoning response." Their list is done and you're drawing in a breath for your next question when they say, "I don't think I like where this is going."
You do your best to read their expression and 'frustrated' is the best you can do. "You need cash right? To get out of here," and for groceries, "and groceries. Whatever time you can spare at the clinic and then some days up at the ranches when your residency is up." You're already second second-guessing every line of reasoning that lead to the offer. You trip over yourself to say, "if you don't already have something lined up."
"It's a couple months until fruit picking season."
"Right." The fruit orchards and farms in the valley around and sprawling away from the nearest city hired hundreds of workers for fruit picking season. You're familiar with some portion hewing akin Murre.
"That's a yes."
"Ah! Right."
