12 Pairs of Gloves: Literary Fiction

By Diana Hacker

"How old are you, anway?"

"4.5 billion years, and I've looked better."

If the Doomsday Clock reached one second to midnight, what would you say to the Earth if she stood in front of you? As the planet prepares to collide with itself, ten humans must unite to see the planet through her change and find a way to rebuild society or let it perish entirely.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Diana Hacker
• Release date: Mar 5, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201769055

Diana Hacker

Diana has been a burger flipper, newspaper carrier, photographer, yoga teacher, business owner, and writer. Diana rejects titles, out-of-control capitalism, social injustices, and climate-change deniers. 12 Pair of Gloves, her first novel, is a tale of love, duty, and betryal. One human to the other and on the planet they ignore. 

Book preview

Soliloquies

Somewhere in western Washington

February 28, 2008

SOLACE WASN’T BORN so much as fashioned.

She approached a stump, an ax clung to its rings - the blade so deep it was difficult to tell which would surrender first. She pried the ax free, the wood groaning as it reluctantly let go. With the ax in one hand, Solace retrieved a third log with the other and stood it upright on the stump. Her long fingers balanced it just so, getting it ready for the swing. Rearing back, Solace hoisted the ax over her shoulder, elbows pointed to the moon, and with one long, clean arc, bore down to split the wood almost in half. She freed the ax and struck again and again. She never missed the previous cut.

Solace’s cautious wisdom belied her youthful appearance as she moved toward the mountains to her right and dense forest straight ahead. She caught something in the wind and inhaled the scent of elk foraging nearby. She stood quietly to listen—and to feel. Created from water and fire, Solace reflected those elements in her eyes and hair and limbs. With every blink, long black lashes gently kissed fine lines beside her hawk-gold eyes. Full, flamingo-kissed lips opened with every breath to expel stratocumulus clouds into the cold air. She attuned her petite nose to every fragrance, every nuance.

She turned her attention back to the logs, resolved to finish. Slender-strong arms swung tirelessly to chop four more. The chill in the air announced the change of season. Solace had tucked her hair into a hat, and a bulky, sky-blue scarf wrapped snugly around her slim neck. Gathering as much split wood as she could carry, she followed a worn trail through the snow to a woodshed beside the cabin. She would add these pieces to her winter supply.

After stacking the firewood in a neat pile, Solace closed the shed door and started toward the cabin. She entered through the sole door and stood a moment while a grin pulled at her lips. A small cloth couch furnished the small room ahead and faced a simple stone fireplace. Beside the sofa sat an overstuffed blue gingham chair. An oak writing desk stood on turned, delicate legs, papers stacked in a corner. Bookshelves filled with tomes, manuals, and texts lined three of the walls.

A mind unlike any other, Solace opened books and learned to forage, build, and thrive at the foot of the mountain. She opened books and learned to repair the cabin, mend her clothes, and tend the garden. Solace was part of everything, claimed by nothing. Recently, she had opened a book and learned to be human, and learned to mesh that with all she currently was.

The small kitchen on her left contained the tools and instruments she would need to prepare her meals. Forages and harvests from the garden yielded most of the ingredients. Tonight, she assembled an evening meal of winter squash soup and warm homemade bread. Solace knew the process from memory. She only needed to read the recipe once. She only ever needed to do anything once.

While soup simmered on the stove, Solace went to her bedroom at the back of the cabin. Her eyes swept over the simple bed and nightstand tucked into the small room where she slumbered, a doorway to treks through the woods, voyages over the oceans, and journeys to every corner of herself. Solace had been everywhere and everything, although she had been in this form longer than others, this tangible body with a brain molded from every experience. Every detail.

Solace came to an understanding about humans and their animal nature. She recognized their powerful connection to energy, yet confused by their inability to trust the coupling. The human brain, refined and shaped by time and instance, was still in its infancy. No matter what she thought of humans or their self-inflicted conditions, she could not understand their self-importance nor the denial they played a role in the events happening right now.

Right now.

Outside the cabin’s window.

She went to the nightstand to retrieve a book: Anthropology. One read would enter human history into her indelible memory. Solace tucked the book under her arm and returned to the kitchen. She turned off the burner beneath her steaming pot of soup and lifted the lid to inhale the rich aroma as it enveloped her face. She smiled.

Tomorrow, she’d meet the answer to her questions.

THE OLD WOMAN STOOD silent. She didn’t approach, and she didn’t retreat. In fact, she barely touched the ground. Solace saw her from the cabin’s window, where she first appeared at the edge of the clearing. Now she just floated amongst the trees, noncommittal.

Solace rose early after a fitful night’s sleep. It was December and cold. Snow pummeled the land just a few nights ago. She would have to clear the truck before she drove to town.

Visions of future turmoil and insurmountable obstacles filled her dreams. In the most troubling dream, attempted to scale a mountainside, but try as she might, the cold, sharp air whipped around her and would not allow it. Dressed only in a gossamer gown, she did not prepare for the frigid temperatures as she climbed towards the summit. No gear to aid her, just her delicate hands and feet. She’d fall, barely catch a ledge, then start again until another gust ripped her grasp free. Cold, unsure, and frightened, she pressed on as best she could, reaching for handhold after handhold, knowing she must not fail.

Another slip jolted her from sleep.

She gasped awake and gripped the sides of the bed, mummified by sheets and blankets. Covered in sweat, yet freezing, she rose with a start and wiped her brow before dismantling the barrage of cloth around her. Once untangled, she put her feet on the floor one at a time, comforted by the feeling of ground beneath them. Deep breaths slowed her heart and steadied her bearings. She rose slowly, gravely; the day began in solemnity.

Now she was in the kitchen preparing a cup of tea when she noticed movement out the window. Solace’s keen nose caught the scent of her visitor, something animal and raw. The woman levitated at the line of trees and stared back. Solace went to the door and opened it into the wintery morning.

The woman was gone.

Solace scanned the clearing as far as her gaze could reach. Her nose tested the air and her ears stayed alert. Nothing. Aside from the wind and falling snow, all was quiet. Shaking her head, Solace backed into the cabin and closed the door against the storm. She turned around, and a gasp escaped her mouth.

The old woman sat on the sofa facing the cold fireplace, browsing through one of Solace’s books. You found me, she declared without looking up. Instead, she gestured for Solace to sit beside her.

I’ve been waiting for you.

Indeed, the old woman’s face crinkled into a smile.

Solace sat on the sofa, unafraid and curiously intrigued by the woman’s presence. She was small, Solace observed, but she sat upright and moved with precision. The woman stood with purpose, her steady hands returning the book to its place on the shelf.

Solace settled into the sofa and crossed her arms and legs.

I see you have mastered their body language, Solace.

Solace wrinkled her nose, uncrossed her arms and folded her hands in her lap, Why are you here?

Do you know who you are, Solace?

Do I know who I am in the sense that I have no recollection of birth or childhood and that I appeared inside this cabin one day, and although I seem to be human –

You are everything, except human.

Then yes, I know exactly who I am.

Good. You knew I would come, even if you didn’t know when. Long, grey curls toppled over her shoulders with her shrug, But here we are and there is work to do.

She spun and her flowing locks seemed to cast light. Solace watched as sparks danced into the cabin’s corners and left a soft glow in their wake.

The woman wore a long gossamer gown, much like the one in her dreams. One bony hand, the color of ravens, reached into an invisible pocket and retrieved a long, narrow box and placed it on the fireplace hearth. The woman reached in again and withdrew a stack of cream-colored square envelopes and placed them on top of the box.

You will change rapidly now, Solace, and soon you will not look the same at all. Many, many species will suffer, including humans. Especially humans. It will be hard to keep up with you, to adapt. Most of them will die.

The old woman stooped to move the envelopes and pick up the box. She motioned for Solace to follow her to the desk, where she set the box and opened its lid.

And why do I care if humans die? Solace asked. Not with malice, but with curiosity.

You don’t have to care, Solace, they do. The woman gestured to the box. Look here.

The lid was slightly larger than the base and slid atop in gift box fashion, except it wasn’t cardboard but sanded, nondescript, naked pine.

How soon is soon? Solace asked as a shudder ran through her. Somewhere, the earth quaked.

The woman looked up. Sorry?

You said soon I won’t look the same. How soon?

The old woman straightened her back with ease. She only appeared old — wizened. I imagine it will take a fraction of time as you and I describe it. For humans, about thirty years. Time enough to prepare. She gestured to the box again. You will summon them when the time is right. You will know when that is. In the meantime...

She reached into the box and pulled out a pair of sleek black gloves with long tapered fingers and short sleeves whose cuffs ended at the wrist. The old woman reached a thin hand into the box to retrieve several more and laid them across the desk.

Do you remember these?

Solace looked into the old woman’s eyes and saw a picture reflected. It was Solace, deep inside the forest practicing her skills with a bow and wearing an archer’s glove. Solace laughed and looked at the table. Those are not the same.

But they are, Solace, just like me. They are exactly what you need them to be when you choose. You’ve worn every single pair of those gloves. I infused them with you, your essence, your power. The humans cannot do this alone, they will need the gloves. And you.

Solace laughed again, mightier this time. Listen, already I am changing, already I can feel the shift deep in my core. It’s a reckoning, and most of my life forms won’t survive. Why should I care about one? Why should I give a damn about a species that creates little except new ways to kill each other?

I know you blame them.

I blame them because they think they are above the cycle of nature. Everything understands this but them. I see no good reason to make this effort.

The old woman didn’t answer. Instead, she packed the gloves back into the box and replaced the lid. She faced Solace and watched her storm, watched the edges of her eyes melt like a glacier and pool on her lid until a single drop ran down her cheek.

You will find the teacher and together you can replace the soil.

Forty Degrees North

Madrid, Spain   

February 21, 2032    

Brisa Martin did not know where she was or how she ended up there. She lay on her back staring into the early sun as sickly smells hunted her nostrils. She pushed to sit and had to wait a few seconds while her world spun, then unhurriedly came to a painful stop. Her head pounded. She conjured a vague memory of entering this alleyway where she now huddled behind a dumpster. She hugged her coat around her shoulders to ward off the chill and the memory of similar mornings.

Brisa halfheartedly rummaged through the pockets of her jeans for clues to the previous night’s activities. Her fingers recognized something hard, half smiling as she palmed a short glass tube. The pipe was ready for business with its pinch of steel wool and promise of normalcy. Brisa continued digging through pockets until she found the small plastic bag with an off-white nugget still inside. Inserting the rock into the pipe, she fumbled for her lighter, then lowered the flame to the pipe. She took a long hit and collapsed against the dumpster as the drug made its way to her brain like liquid fire.

"Shit, she thought, I’d better get moving."

Unsteady, Brisa braced and balanced as she clawed her way up the dumpster, grabbing ledges to steady her way to standing. Upright, she looked around her temporary home for anything she might have dropped, concerned with two major items: drugs and money for drugs. As a picture of herself came into view, she recalled smoking the night before and drinking at least half a bottle of rum. It was the alcohol that started the vertigo, and in the most obscene way, crack that provided the stability.

She absently rubbed her right arm, damaged not so long ago and taking its sweet time to heal, a constant reminder of her consequences. Swaying, but standing, she tried to remember where she’d been or what she’d done. She remembered partying with Mario readily enough, but no recollection of who else might have been there. A typical night with her favorite fellow user.

Oh fuck it, she said aloud, what does it matter, anyway? Thoughts trudged through her head like lead moving through glue, making it unpleasant, if not impossible, to think.

Brisa followed the alley until she came out onto a street. Sticking her thumb out, she hoped to hitch a ride out of Madrid to flop for a while, get her head together. A few more hits off the pipe should help right the wrongs she’d done to herself. After carefully walking backwards for less than ten minutes, a dark blue four-door Ibiza sedan pulled up alongside the curb. The driver pushed open the passenger door and invited her in. She hesitated for a fraction, feeling suspicious.

Or was it paranoia?

Heeding neither, she lowered her thumb and head and slid onto the empty seat.

Hola, senorita, the driver scanned her face, clothes, and manner.

Hola, she non-responded, pulling the door closed with a firm click. Thank you.

Where are you headed? he asked, a young man in his twenties, most likely on his way to weekend festivities. Or looking for trouble.

Out of town. You can drop me anywhere, Brisa stayed vague, unrevealing. I’m meeting family, she added as an afterthought, so he’d think someone would miss her if she didn’t show up. She revisited her eerie feeling; an unease settled into her nape.

Listen chica, I know your kind. The only one you’re meeting is your dealer, he looked in her direction, locking her dark eyes to his. She looked away, pushing stringy hair behind an ear before slowly sliding her hand toward the door handle. Maybe we can make our own deal, he reached for her left thigh, fingers squeezing her flesh.

Hey! Brisa swatted his hand away.

Her force caught him off guard. He jerked the wheel left; the car lurched. They were in the oncoming lane. His thigh-squeezing hand flew to the steering wheel as he frantically corrected the car.

Brisa connected with the door handle and wrenched it hard. The door gave way, and she hesitated, split the second, then tucked her head and rolled out. Brisa hit the ground hard, landing on her right shoulder, banging the same bruised elbow as she contacted the ground. She stayed tucked until she hit an obstacle, most likely a curb, scrambling to her feet in her most coordinated movement of the day.

I must have a shitty memory, Brisa admonished herself as she dusted off already dirty jeans.

Tires screeched as the driver brought the car to a halt. White reverse lights came on just before the tires started rotating backwards, aiming for her, picking up speed.

Fuck you, asshole! she screamed, shaking her fist before extending her middle finger. Brisa bolted across the road, between shops and into another alley, where she slammed directly into Mario.

What the fuck?! he shouted, pushing her away before he saw who she was. Oh shit, hey Brisa, what the hell are you doing?

I hitched a ride with some asshole and he tried to get friendly. I opted out. But Jesus, my arm hurts. She briskly rubbed her right arm from shoulder to wrist.

What the hell are you doing getting into someone’s car?! Mario let out a sound Brisa understood meant exasperation at her recklessness, as if it were a surprise. Her head still spun, escalated from the tumble onto the road. She rubbed at her temples as she met Mario’s look of concern.

Mario, seriously. Let’s get somewhere we can crash. I’ve been awake for an hour and I’m already exhausted. Brisa was ready to feel normal again.

Mario reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He shook one loose and offered it to her. Brisa reached for the cigarillo and held it between her fingers.

She stared at Mario, who stared right back.

Well? Light?

Mario frowned as he produced a lighter, flicked the wheel to bring it to life, and brought it to the business end of the cigarette. He watched Brisa pull the flame in with her inhale, sucking the smoke deep into her lungs. Her shoulders dropped away from her ears as the smoke escaped her mouth. You’re such a bitch, Mario observed.

Fuck you. Let’s go.

The two of them walked in the cold air, hugging their coats around them as the wind doubled the morning’s misery. Brisa watched the pavement as they walked, quietly smoking her cigarette, avoiding conversation. They reached Mario’s car, a grungy white Ibiza two-door with more dents and dings than a smooth surface, though the sight of it stopped Brisa cold at the thought of her near-miss hitchhike.

Fucking cars, she said to no one as she folded herself onto the passenger seat. Brisa kicked off her shoes and drew her knees to her chest, her heels balanced on the edge of the seat. She rolled the window down a few centimeters to let the smoke escape. Her head turned to look out the window as she puffed. She didn’t look at Mario.

He considered asking what the hell her problem was in exactly that tone, but he already knew. Lost in his own thoughts, he remembered a couple weeks earlier when he found Brisa in another alley, curled in a ball against a brick wall, soft sobs gently rocking her body. She lay on her side, arms shielding her face. He called her name from the opposite wall, whispering so he wouldn't frighten her. She hadn’t heard, or if she had, didn’t acknowledge.

Mario stepped closer. Brisa, what happened?

No answer. He waited.

Kneeling down beside her, he brushed her dark hair out of her eyes. As he scanned her for evidence of illness or overdose, Mario’s eyes widened when he saw the blood where her torso split into limbs. Stained, unzipped jeans sat just below her buttocks, as if she’d tried to pull them up but couldn’t quite manage. He saw angry bruises and cuts on her right arm near the elbow. Her coat was under her feet, her t-shirt ripped away from her right shoulder.

Jesus Brisa. What happened?! Were you? The anger in his voice trailed off when he heard Brisa whimper.

Mario rested a hand on her left shoulder, fear on his face.

Get off! Brisa commanded as she’d pushed his hand away. She moved deliberately until she could prop herself up on her right hand, fingers dug into the gravel surface, daggers of pain shooting up into her shoulder. Leaning, she kept one hand on the ground as the other got busy wiping the dirt and shame from her face. She winced with every movement.

Brisa, no, let me help you, Mario said, shaking his head in slow motion. He reached for her, but she kicked him away and he tumbled back.

Stay away from me!

Brisa! I will not hurt you!

She blinked in recognition, as if she were seeing him for the first time. Her head dropped in exhaustion as she collapsed back onto the ground.

Let’s go. El hospital... Mario reached for her again, timid this time.

No! No. And no police. Just take me home. Please.

Home was where they headed now. He glanced at her while she remained fixated on the window, mindlessly flicking ashes and lost in a scene of horrors he knew nothing about. He pressed the accelerator down as they left the boundaries of the city, the old car’s exhaust belching plumes of smoke as it tried to hurry. Brisa finally turned from the window and rested her chin on her knees, her toes stretched wide to steady her heels on the edge of the torn seat.

Why aren’t we there yet? She rested a cheek on her knee.

We are. He turned the wheel to the right and pulled in front of an abandoned warehouse, a splintered wooden door the only entrance save for two broken windows two meters above the street. He shifted the car to park and pulled the emergency brake.

Brisa opened the passenger door to stretch her legs, planting her feet on the ground. She used the door frame to stand, then stretched her arms overhead to grasp a wrist and flex her torso from side to side.

That’s better, she mumbled before reaching the wooden door to take the handle. It was unlocked, but it took finesse to wiggle it out of its frame. Brisa worked the door like she worked a pipe, finally pushing it open to step inside, Mario right behind her.

Other than a thin stream of grimy light falling on the floor through the open door, the room was dark and smelled of liquor and sweat — a sweet, musky odor Brisa found comforting and familiar. Three mattresses lay on the floor, dark stains left by junkies and tricks dotted their surfaces. Brisa flopped onto one of them, unconcerned about the stains, the smell, or the brutal reality of where she was today.

Come on, Mario, light up.

Maybe we should take a break. Just be clear for a little while.

You can fuck me first if that’s what you’re getting at. Brisa smiled and spread her legs.

No, Brisa, for god’s sake, not everyone is your enemy.

Oh, so you’re my friend? My pal, my buddy? she pulled her legs together and sat up to cackle at the idea.

Mario stood over her as she laughed up at him. I’m leaving. 

Wait, no. I’m sorry, don’t go, she let out a leaden sigh and ran her fingers through ratted hair. It’s just—

I know what it is, Brisa. I know what’s happened to you. I can help you if you’ll let me.

Brisa’s hand dropped from her hair. Her dark eyes darker still, untrusting and suspicious.

Help!? How? You gonna track down the guys that passed me around? Rough ‘em up? Make them pay? Ha! You’re a junkie too, not some goddam superhero.

You’re a useless bitch, you know that, right?

Mario didn’t wait for an answer, instead he reached into his pocket, pulled out a plastic bag with three rocks inside and threw it in her direction. It landed on the filthy mattress.

Choke on it, Mario threw open the door to flood the room with dirty light. He stepped outside and pulled it closed with a clunk.

Brisa watched him leave, then crawled over to the next mattress where the bag waited. She smiled at it, picked it up in her hand, and gave it a kiss.

My friend.

Tucked under a crumpled sheet and just a few centimeters from the bag, the neck of a bottle poked out. A brown liquid swirled into the neck as she crawled, a beckoning fit for the situation. She pulled the bottle out to discover it was rum—sweet, warm-your-soul rum. Brisa uncapped the bottle and took a long swallow, then another, the heat making its way down her throat, into her chest and out into her limbs. The room floated as she loaded the crack pipe, set a flame, and drew in a long inhale. Then another.

And another.

And another.

Mario drove the streets aimlessly, trying to decide if he should leave her or turn back, try again. He knew life hadn’t been kind to Brisa, but she didn’t help herself, not anymore. She’d lost her first baby when she was young and vulnerable, a chink in her armor that alcohol penetrated to lead her down narrow paths and dark alleys.

Brisa discovered she was pregnant shortly after turning sixteen. She was frightened and unable to turn to the baby’s father, whoever that was. Her own mother died in childbirth, died during her role in the miracle through her denial of what she herself had become — the same fate that now awaited Brisa. Once the idea of a baby sunk in, Brisa found a hope that she could do it differently than her parents, that her life wouldn’t go