THE BAG STORY

a/n(A/N: alternate title: The Writer's Revenge.)

"You've got to get rid of that bag."

The classroom was silent other than the branches blowing across the window. Kyle took a long inhale through his fox's snout. He studied his teacher's dark-furred face, and met a firm stare. The white blaze over the horse-woman's right eye made it hard to hold, bright as a spotlight. The other professor--a casually dressed graying pine marten--sunk back into his chair, arms folded.

Kyle sat back too--not actually very comfortable on these solid-wood chairs--and broke the silence. "Ok, well, that's not happening."

Katherine(A/N: the process used to derive this name from her real one goes through, of all things, transfeminist satire. But some damn good transfeminist satire!!) held out her hands in an imploring gesture. "I know this bag is important to you. But it's holding you back."

"What?" Kyle tilted his head. "He's only ever been helpful to me."

"Well," Katherine started ticking off on her fingers. "You're bumping into things, your peers are complaining about the smell ..."

"Look, if it's about the smell again, I can clean him. I don't know if he's ever ..."

Katherine stopped him with another hard stare. "It's not just about the smell. This is about you needing to let something go."

Kyle glared right back. "I've carried him a thousand miles and through three names. It's never been an issue anywhere else."

"I know this bag means a lot to you." Katherine's tone was warmer, in the way copper is warmer than steel. "You know, we do an exercise in my class where we look at an object and try and tell its story. I bet you can tell a good one--that bag has seen a lot of story. But sometimes you've got to ask--and it's a hard ask, it's a real struggle--but you've got to ask whether this story still serves you."

Kyle dug his fangs into his lip, holding back a bunch of snappy responses. Chris(A/N: his name is just a step down a computer series), the pine martin, finally jumped in. "You went to Katherine's event the other weekend without it. Seems like you had a great time."

"That's because I ... that's beside the point." Kyle took a breath with his paws over his heart. "Look, I have questioned this story. Constantly. I've used every item in this bag at least once. I'm on the fifth generation of my packing list, constantly refining what I carry in order to be prepared without getting too bulky. I'm very aware of this stuff."

"It doesn't seem like it." Katherine shook her head.

In case the subtext wasn't clear, Chris spelled it out. "I mean, do you want to be looking homeless?"

Kyle slapped his palms against the table, a dense, woody note ringing out in the small space. The trees started to blow more aggressively. "I don't care. Appearance is never something I've cared about."

"But some people do." Chris explained, in the voice one would to a simple child. "It's not fair, but it's true. You're going to lose out on opportunities from giving out the wrong impression."

"Then they're opportunities I wanted to lose." Kyle said offhandly, though russet fur was trying to stick up all down his spine.

They hung there for a moment--deadlock. Chris shifted in his chair back to a more comfortable position. A cardinal landed on the branch outside and began to chirp. Kyle's breaths were heavy as he tracked it along a few wobbling steps.

Finally, Katherine sighed. "Alright. We can disagree about what the bag means for now. But you do have to replace it; the smell is upsetting your peers."

"Oh, there's a outdoor gear store, what, over on Diamond Lane?" Chris pulled out his phone and tapped around briefly. "Ah, yeah, there it is."

Kyle let his arms finally drop, turning from steel to soft bag in a long breath. "Fine."

Later that night, Kyle sat in his shower. The bag in question was now in his lap--a dark green hunk of fabric, split into upper and lower pouches, and dotted with patches and straps sewn with clumsy stitches. All its zippers hung open, guts spilled back in the room over the rented bed. He had gone to the store, as he promised. Full of fancy toys for rich furs, bags emblazoned proudly with corporate names, hanging identical in a line on polished steel racks. He'd managed about ten minutes of looking, trying to read tags and compare features, but when the weight on his back seemed dripping with tears, he finally turned and left with empty paws.

"That's alright though." he said to himself. "I think I can fix you up, old friend."

He reached over his head to turn on the water. Armed with a scrub brush and a bottle of cheap dish soap, he went over every pore of the bag. Inside every crevice, top to bottom, rubbing up and down with the jitters of fire still racing through his nerves. He was going to fix this--he had to. There was no other choice. Suds coated every surface, spattering his fur and burying the kelp-green between his legs in foam. Time dragged on without a clock in sight, water going on and off ... but finally, he decided it was enough.

He buried his head in the main pocket, and gave it a thorough sniff. He hadn't been able to detect a smell before, but now was assaulted with the piercing smell of artificial flowers. The water drained away as he toweled himself, then the bag as best he could. A series of ropes let him rig the bag up as though in flight, dangling between the shower and shelf, flaps open wide, just the right height to point his tower fan into. He'd have to keep a monitor on it for a couple hours, give it a few turns, taking no chances with mildew.

Through the door to his apartment he heard a commotion--a herd of people coming inside. It wouldn't have been interesting, except ... someone definitely called out "is he alright?", though it was muffled through the door. Kyle threw on loose pants and a shirt, then rifled through the pile on the bed for the red bag and stepped out.

"Everybody alright?" he asked. The common room was crowded with furs in various states of dress, mostly swimsuits and towels.

"It's fine, guys, seriously." said an out-of-breath beaver-man seated on the bench. The fur on his knee was ripped and matted with dark rivers, with brighter pink showing in the bald patches.

"Here." Kyle darted over and started laying out supplies--antiseptic, rumage, rumage, gauze, rumage, medical tape. He dabbed the ointment onto the gauze, then offered it to the beaver with the tape roll.

"Thanks." he said, and set it in place to start wrapping himself up.

It was only at this point that Kyle looked back and noticed Chris standing over his shoulder, eyes widened and slightly slackjawed. Apartment manager, their "adult supervision", without a thing in his hands.

"Hi." Kyle said. "Handy to be prepared, eh?"

a/n(A/N: look I know this looks like a "I'm #awesome and always right" story but I swear this is pretty much what actually happened. It was over the course of a week in real life, but otherwise unfabricated)