Pronoun Circle

A Short Story by Jen Ives

“Alright, so what we’re going to do first is - all stand up, and go around in a big circle and state our pronouns…”

Alice was last to stand. She was only there at all because the doctor had recommended it. It’ll be productive for you, to get out and meet others with shared experiences. Alice didn’t like the doctor - she had once asked her ‘which way she was going’. Boy to girl, or girl to boy? As if the way she were dressed, and her name being ‘Alice’ didn’t make it totally fucking obvious.

An older trans woman went first. She had on shoes that were too small for her, and a badly fitting Amazon Prime wig. Alice hated her. She didn’t know her at all, in fact the only conversation they’d had was when she’d offered her a biscuit upon arrival, but Alice hated her just the same. Was that her future? A cold chill ran down her spine at the very thought.

“I’m Claire. My pronouns are she/her”.

Alice wondered why so many older trans women named themselves Claire. Was there some famous Claire on the TV in the 1950s or something? Or was it just because it sounded soft and sweet and girlish? Either way, she didn’t think it suited this woman. Alice thought this character looked more like a ‘Brenda’, and decided that that’s what she’d call her, in her head, whenever they spoke.

The next one said her name was Henrietta. That was more realistic, Alice reckoned. She’d always thought that it was a clever move to choose an ugly name, rather than a pretty one. If you were trying to pass, giving yourself the kind of name that no one in their right mind would ever choose for themselves was genius. That way, people would say: Is she trans? No, she can’t be - her name is Henrietta! And as far as Alice was concerned, Henrietta needed all the help she could get. Her hair was her own, but it was receding, and tied back into a tight ponytail - except the pony in question was emaciated and molting.

Henrietta’s pronouns were she/her as well. As were the next lady’s. It all felt a bit redundant to Alice, considering this was a support group for transgender women, afterall. Eventually, it got to Alice’s turn. The woman leading the group - a sixty something former RAF pilot in a striped blouse named Christeen - waited patiently for Alice to reveal her identity to the group. Alice half stood up, and opened her mouth…

“Alice. Anyone want to guess?”

An awkward silence bounced off of the walls of the Quaker centre.

“A lot of people identify in different ways, Alice. We just do this so everyone can stay respectful.”

Alice didn’t want to stay respectful. What she wanted to do was pick up her chair and throw it across the room. What she wanted to do was launch herself out of the window headfirst and then run into oncoming traffic and get squashed by a lorry.

“My pronouns are she/her. But call me whatever you like, I really don’t care…”

And she really didn’t care. Alice had stopped caring exactly two weeks ago when, while walking home at 01:00am from The Hutch, a queer club off Dalston Highstreet, she was followed and then set upon by two men, twice her size.

The following day, she’d made a report to the local police station, where a female police officer had given her the address of a women’s crisis shelter nearby. She attempted to enter the shelter, after some dutch courage, later that afternoon - but was turned away. Apparently, she wasn’t the right type of woman to get their help.

And now she was here - surrounded by pathetic, old divorcees who had all waited until they were nearly dead to even come out. What could she possibly have in common with these people? How was this productive? Where were the ‘shared experiences’ she’d heard so much about?

Christine moved on from Alice, and faced her attention towards the chair to her left. Everyone in the circle was listening intently to the next speaker along, and for a second Alice feared that she might have gone deaf, because she couldn’t hear anyone saying anything at all. It was only when she lifted her head back up from her shoes that she noticed the chair to her left was completely empty.

Alice looked around the hall in confused disdain at all the other women nodding in agreement - some laughing - at nothing at all. She double checked the chair next to her, but sure enough it was, definitely, uninhabited. Alice stood up fast, pushing her chair backwards with a screech.

“Are you all senile? That’s an empty chair!”

“Please Alice, sit back down.” Christine now wore an amused, knowing smile on her face. Alice picked up her bag and slung it over her shoulder.

“I thought this was supposed to be a support group? I’ll say you lot need support, you’re talking to an empty fucking chair!”.

Alice began the walk towards the exit door.

“It’s not empty Alice” Christine called out. “Look for yourself!”

“Yeah, whatever. You lot are loopy. I’m gonna go… ”

As Alice grabbed the door handle, she turned to get one last look at the room - and, inexplicably, there was a figure sat in the once empty chair. From this position in the room Alice could only see the back of it, but even from a distance she could sense something was off. Aside from the figure seemingly appearing out of nowhere, there was a haziness to the shape of this woman’s body - a deep, dark fuzzy outline like when you can only just about see the edges of a person in the dark. It scared Alice. There was a knot in her stomach, like some dark nostalgic nausea from childhood, back when life had a sense of terrifying, inexplicable mystery. What Alice felt in that moment wasn’t good, but it was new. And Alice needed something new. She needed to see this figure’s face.

Alice stepped cautiously back toward her chair, taking care not to get too close to the anomaly in the seat next to her. As Alice attempted to look at it, even from this close up, it was a continuous challenge for her eyes to hold their focus. She could see that there were features - like arms and a neck and a mouth - but they seemed to drift and, at times, pulsate unnaturally.

From what Alice could make out, the figure was tall. Taller, in fact, than anyone else in the circle - her proportions slightly too long in certain places, almost as if she were being stretched. Alice shuffled her chair over to the right slightly, to ensure there was no risk of touching the being. Christine stepped forward.

“Don’t be frightened, Alice. This is Lucielle. She’s been coming to the group, in one way or another, ever since we started it”.

Alice swore she could hear a low tone emanating from the figure now - like the ringing of a bell, recorded and slowed down. It haunted her bones.

“What do you mean, in one way or another?”

“Since the very first circle, 5 years ago now, we’d hear funny sounds and whispers. It started with little knocks, stuff like that. Then, one day, while we were going around and stating our pronouns - Claire’s cup of coffee lifted up in front of everyone here, and launched itself across the room! It was obvious that we had a not-so-secret extra member. So, we started putting out an extra chair for her each week and - after we began including her in the pronoun circle - we slowly started to see the outlines of a shape appear in the chair. Say hi to Alice, Lucielle!”

Lucille’s head didn’t so much ‘turn’, as her facial features moved around to the right of her head. She didn’t so much ‘speak’ as she did emanate an odd, raspy tone, which made Alice shudder.

“You probably won’t be able to see Lucielle properly yet. It takes time to see her - and the more often you come to the circle, the more clear she’ll become to you”.

“What is she?” Alice was trying to keep her composure. To look nonchalant and confident in front of these knowing women, who were all extremely calm and collected in the face of, what Alice could only really describe as, a ghost. Or maybe a demon? Alice felt like an infant now. These women knew something she didn’t.

“Lucielle is most definitely she/her.” Christine laughed. So did Claire, and Henrietta - and all the rest. Alice forced out a smile, but obviously it wasn’t what she had meant.

“Okay, yeah - cool. Well, it was nice to meet you Lucielle, but I’m going to head off now!”. Alice once again threw her bag over her shoulder, and got up to leave. Except… she couldn’t get up. Suddenly, she was as heavy as a boulder. Alice glanced around at the older women, all of whom gazed at Alice ominously. Intently.

“What’s going on? Why can’t I move?”

As Alice winced and struggled, she could just about turn her head to the left to see Lucielle. As before, there was a numbness to her form - a lack of solidity - but her face had more definition now - leering down at her. Her eyes gazed expressionless at Alice. Her mouth hung agape - a black, toothless hole. Alice forced her neck to turn back to the right, and as she did so - found herself facing eight women moving slowly towards her. Each of them held a small, but razor sharp knife, all apart from Christine who was holding a bucket - which she placed down on the floor in front of Alice.

As the women gathered around Alice, she noticed that the once low, almost inaudible rasp of Lucielle had now shifted into something more distinct. The pitch was still low, but Alice could make out the words now…

“She. Her. She. Her. She. Her.”

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I am currently on the look out for a literary agent, and have many other short stories, and the first draft of a novel completed. If you are a literary agent, and would like to read more of my work, please email me at jeniveswriter@gmail.com