Xylem Justice Is Served

By William "Brent" Heckler

Authors in this title are -

TraciMusick-Shaffer

LauraBota

William "Brent"Heckler

RichardSaddlemire

RichardSaddlemire

AJEllis

KelleyRaab

Collection of Short Stories

BCID - 713-16993315

• Language: English
• Publisher: Free Spirit
• Release date: Sep 5, 2023
• ISBN: 9788119351329

Book preview

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All Rights Reserved

Published by

Free Spirit

Poets Choice & Free Spirit LLC

First Edition September 2023

William Brent Heckler, Dalton Mire,

Aidan James, Kelley Raab

Authors in this book are from:

Winner of Contest: Susan Lawrence

Cover Design by Koni Deraz, Germany

Back Cover Content by Akshay Sonthalia, India

Edited by Satya Ram, Pondicherry, India

Book Design by Adil Ilyas, Pakistan

ISBN: 978-81-19351-32-9

Price: $28

BCID: 713-16993315

The views and opinions expressed in this collection of stories are those of the authors and do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of Free Spirit. Any content provided by our authors are of their opinion and are not intended to malign any religion, ethnic group, club. organization, company, individual or anyone or anything. Details and curiosities about the places in this book have been found on Wikipedia and on the Web. They do not reflect opinions or quote from the publisher.

Not suitable for children.

Contents

Finding Strength and a Voice

Traci Musick Shaffer

Homecoming

Laura Bota

King Pig

Aidan James Ellis

Murder From The Heart

William Brent Heckler

Lois McMaster Bujold

B. R. Hayden

The Long Escape

Dalton Mire

The Silent Treatment

Kelley Raab

Where Buzzards Soar

Dalton Mire

Participants

Finding Strength and a Voice

Traci Musick Shaffer

South Point, Ohio - United States

His bare hand palmed my breast. Like he had grabbed a baseball and prepared to throw it into the stands for all to see.

At least it makes your boob look bigger, the doctor hissed as he jiggled my breast up and down. He sneered a slimy, toothy grin as I shrank away from his pirate-like greedy grasp.

I don’t want bigger boobs. I like mine fine, I whispered.

Or was it more of a whimper as I jerked my shoulder away?

This sudden move forced him to release his quarry.

On this day, I was sitting on an exam table wearing a medical gown open in the front. The nurse commanded I do so.

Why was I compliant with this directive? My biopsy incisions showed above my bra line. Why’d I need to remove my shirt and bra for this follow-up visit?

Six days after a breast biopsy, I had returned to the local hospital in Small Town, USA, to learn the results of my micro-calcification clusters. I’d had a week with jangled, discordant, tap-dancing upon my nerves.

While in the pit of my gut sounded the cry: benign or malignant?

Come in now, said the spider to the fly.

I’d waited for forty minutes beyond my scheduled appointment slot. The woven web took time.

The nurse escorted me to an exam room.

Here, I met the spider with his unprofessional assault on my bare breast. He had inspected my incisions. There was no reason for him to touch me again.

But he did. He grabbed my breast and wielded it like a toy.

I wanted information.

Was the cluster in my breast tissue malignant or not?

Instead, I confronted a tangled web—hiding behind the nametag Doctor.

When I inquired about a hematoma, this louse in a lab coat manhandled my breast.

No medical gloves.

Just a bare hand palming, manipulating me.

At least it makes your boob look bigger. Don’t you want that?

Wait—what? Why did he say that? Why did he jiggle my breast as if in pleasure?

My mouth dropped open. Then clamped shut. I shrank back in shock and horror. I needed out of that room… fast.

Exiting in haste, I felt repulsed and sickened. Sweat ran down my neck. My back.

Did all breast surgeons do this?

Why hadn’t I smacked his hand away? Why hadn’t I yelled?

His bare hand touched my skin.

Why did I sit passive, powerless?

Where was my voice?

Days later, I watched Serena Williams explode at an umpire during a tennis match. I melted into my protective shell I typically withdrew into during moments of weakness. Why didn’t I have strength like that? Why didn’t I explode at the doctor?

The simple answer: I’m compliant and haven’t found my voice.

My howl sits muted and bound.

When Serena pointed her finger at the umpire, she roared, It’s because I’m a woman!

I shook at her truth.

How often do men maneuver life’s matches from their high perch?

The breadth and depth of misogynistic mindsets traverse the world.

It lingers like cancer.

Instances of male privilege and sexual objectification played out even in my little world.

I think back to my younger years… At a small-town bank, a married loan officer kept sniffing around me.

Oooh, what perfume are you wearing?

When my naïve twenty-two-year-old self replied, The perfume’s name is Beautiful, I wanted to bite my tongue. Why wasn’t I stronger?

Such a beautiful perfume for a beautiful lady, his empty-jawed venom spewed into my ear. Words slinked out sticky and vile. This married man loved slithering around young, single women. Like a wolf ready to pounce.

Inwardly I thought, The perfume I wear is shit like the load you’re shoveling. My older self would say this.

Then why hadn’t I slapped that doctor’s hand away weeks ago?

Another boss later in life wondered why I wanted a free shirt the office was giving employees.

Are you entering a wet t-shirt contest? he questioned.

My breasts were the target again.

You wouldn’t say that to a man, my older self thinks.

Then why hadn’t I said that to the breast surgeon?

Long ago, I married a tyrant. He reveled in screaming and temper tantrums.

You cunt!

You fucking bitch!

"You could fuck up a wet