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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.
You wake up with Sheppard in bed curled up on the sheepskin from one of the ranches on the backside of the hill. He's still asleep, still exhausted. You don't consider going back to sleep but twine your fingers in Sheppard's and watch the rise and fall of his breaths rather than wake him. It's about time you'd hear Murre in the kitchen but the cabin is quiet.
Murre walks. They used to walk around town more often but sometimes the walks are more about walking, not talking to or seeing people, so with town near full they're not in town. They stay close, on the deer trails from the deer that trail in and out and through town.
It's easier to stay staunch about staying close to town since salmonberry picking than staunch about not trusting Murre. Murre has similarly stayed staunch about staying close to town—even refusing horseback day trips from ranches on the backside of the hill—so you're not worried.
You make breakfast while Sheppard dozes on the kitchen table. Together you linger over cups of tea—Sheppard forgets he's already added honey and tops up his cup after every sip to dilute the double sweet. He closes his eyes when he leans back against you in your arms, you feel the brief pang of worry in your chest that he might fall asleep again just then—what that might mean.
It's daytime and town is full but Sheppard says he has to get back. You can feel him withhold 'I shouldn't have come'. He's so tired you want to trap him in your bed. He laughs, "Another time."
It's lunchtime and town is about as quiet as it gets when the sun is up. You walk him to the edge of town, cautious and second-guessing every choice of road or shortcut between cabins. His fingers are fumbling yours, trying to find that way you held them while he slept, when he notices.
"Murre."
He takes off running like a panicked deer, like a rabbit out of cover, like a shard of broken mountainside tumbling near vertical crashing through brush.
You're not sure if you should run after him—if you're another liability in a potential situation with liabilities—you do though, cursing yourself for your choice of shoes—not your hiking boots—and lack of backpack. You hope you don't need the medkit sitting in your backpack sitting in your cabin.
You hope Murre has their backpack with their medkit with them.
You start following Sheppard's trail of broken brush instead of the sound of him breaking brush.
You wake up with Sheppard in bed curled up on the sheepskin from one of the ranches on the backside of the hill. He's still asleep, still exhausted. You don't consider going back to sleep but twine your fingers in Sheppard's and watch the rise and fall of his breaths rather than wake him. It's about time you'd hear Murre in the kitchen but the cabin is quiet.
Murre walks. They used to walk around town more often but sometimes the walks are more about walking, not talking to or seeing people, so with town near full they're not in town. They stay close, on the deer trails from the deer that trail in and out and through town.
It's easier to stay staunch about staying close to town since salmonberry picking than staunch about not trusting Murre. Murre has similarly stayed staunch about staying close to town—even refusing horseback day trips from ranches on the backside of the hill—so you're not worried.
You make breakfast while Sheppard dozes on the kitchen table. Together you linger over cups of tea—Sheppard forgets he's already added honey and tops up his cup after every sip to dilute the double sweet. He closes his eyes when he leans back against you in your arms, you feel the brief pang of worry in your chest that he might fall asleep again just then—what that might mean.
It's daytime and town is full but Sheppard says he has to get back. You can feel him withhold 'I shouldn't have come'. He's so tired you want to trap him in your bed. He laughs, "Another time."
It's lunchtime and town is about as quiet as it gets when the sun is up. You walk him to the edge of town, cautious and second-guessing every choice of road or shortcut between cabins. His fingers are fumbling yours, trying to find that way you held them while he slept, when he notices.
"Murre."
He takes off running like a panicked deer, like a rabbit out of cover, like a shard of broken mountainside tumbling near vertical crashing through brush.
You're not sure if you should run after him—if you're another liability in a potential situation with liabilities—you do though, cursing yourself for your choice of shoes—not your hiking boots—and lack of backpack. You hope you don't need the medkit sitting in your backpack sitting in your cabin.
You hope Murre has their backpack with their medkit with them.
You start following Sheppard's trail of broken brush instead of the sound of him breaking brush.
