Rebirthpub

Brand - part 1

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"Four weeks," Caden mutters as the gravel crunches under his tires, the cabin's wooden sign swinging slightly in the wind. He parks, kills the engine, sits for a moment staring at the pine trees crowding the driveway. The tour contract is signed, the advance spent. A short drive from Denver, no distractions. Just the work.

Brand

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Caden Voss built his brand on biological determinism — testosterone levels, fertility rates, the hard data of what men and women are. When something begins rewriting his gender, methodically and without explanation, he manages it the only way he knows how: with spreadsheets, training logs, and clinical distance. What follows is a forensic account of a man who navigates his arguments from the inside, editing the research that now applies to him.

Read ahead at my Patreon.

Rebirth - part 4

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The gym's fluorescent lights are unforgiving. I take a stall to change, shucking my jeans. My usual workout shorts go on and I understand the problem immediately: the fabric pulls tight across a rear that's rounder and fuller than two days ago, the seat straining in a way that has nothing to do with fit. I have less muscle in my thighs and the mass sits differently - softer at the inner thigh, fuller at the seat, less dense at the outer quad. The shorts follow a silhouette I don't recognize. I dig out my sweatpants and put those on instead.

The Ward - part 3

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The ward bathroom. You are standing at the mirror with your shirt off and you don't know how long you've been standing here. The bathroom is empty except for you. The strip light hums above. Your hands are pressed flat against the sides of the belly, which is — large, is the only word, enormous compared to the last time you looked, the navel pushed outward, the skin taut and marked down the center by a dark line you didn't put there. You have been doing the inventory.

Rebirth - Part III

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I wake to the same unfamiliar dampness, the boxers riding up. Emily's side of the bed is empty.

I ball the boxers in my fist and drop them in the hamper. Stand there a moment. Then go to the bathroom.

I flip the toilet seat up by reflex. Stand there looking at it. The medicine cabinet mirror gives me back my own face - same as always from the chin up - and below the waist the whole absurdity of what I'm about to attempt. I spread my feet, plant them shoulder-width apart, and try.

The Ward - Part 2

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A bathroom stall. The ward bathroom — three stalls, the strip lighting humming above, the particular echo of hard surfaces. You are sitting on the toilet and you don't know how you got here. Early morning from the light under the stall door, the ward not yet fully awake. The gap between whatever came before and this stall on this morning is blank and featureless as the gaps always are.

The Ward

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A man wakes in a woman's body with no memory of his name or past -- only the certainty of who he is. Stranded in a psychiatric ward while the world tries to identify him, he finds an unexpected connection with a fellow patient. A quiet, literary story about identity, disorientation, and intimacy.

This story with images and other stories can be accessed at my Patreon at https://rebirth.pub/bc

Rebirth - Part II

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The elevator opens and I step into the office. My shoes squeak against the linoleum, too loose, and my hips move with each step in a rhythm I'm not choosing. The receptionist gives me her usual nod.

Rebirth

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When Mike wakes up one morning with a woman's anatomy below the waist, he has two immediate problems: getting through the workday without anyone noticing, and figuring out how to tell his wife. What follows is an intimate, unflinching account of a man learning to inhabit a body that has quietly rewritten the rules - and discovering that his marriage may be more adaptable than he ever expected.

These sections with images and future sections can be accessed at my Patreon at https://rebirth.pub/bc

The Ward - Part 1

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The first thing is the seat.

Not pain — just wrongness, a soft pressure where there shouldn't be softness, the wooden chair coming up against sensitive and unfamiliar flesh, flesh that registers the hardness of the wood with a directness that makes you shift immediately, instinctively, your weight rolling forward onto your thighs. Better. Marginally. The underwear is wrong too — something silky, something that rides and gathers in ways that underwear shouldn't, the fabric light against skin that is reporting every thread of it.

You look at the table.

Rebirth - Part I

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Outside the window the light is flat and grey, the kind of March morning that hasn't decided what it wants to do yet. I kick the sheets off. The air in the bedroom is cool but my thighs feel damp, sticky almost, the boxers bunching up between my legs like they're caught on something. I press my palms into the mattress and push myself up, legs swinging over the edge - except my balance is wrong. Not dizzy. Just off, like my center of gravity shifted an inch or two south while I was sleeping.

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