I Need to Borrow Your Scissors
A horror story, set entirely in a kitchen, over coffee, between women who've known each other for decades. The body count is zero. The betrayals are not.
Fern’s kitchen smells like coffee and the lavender sachets she keeps in every drawer, same as it always does, same as when her mother hosted sewing circle here forty years ago and Fern sat in the corner doing homework, listening to the women talk about husbands and recipes and who slept with whom. The coffee maker gurgles. The radio plays low, some preacher talks about gratitude and obedience, and Fern keeps the volume loud enough for anyone listening at the window to hear it but not so loud it interrupts conversation.
“Hold it taut,” Fern says. “You’re gonna get puckers.”
“I know how to sew a stripe, Fern.” Rhonda pulls the fabric tight across her knee and pushes the needle through. “I been sewing longer than you been alive.”
“You’re only three years older than me.” They laugh.
The stripe is royal blue, two inches wide, the exact shade specified in the Citizen Presentation Guidelines they all received in January. Fern ordered the fabric online from an approved vendor, $4.99 a yard plus shipping plus the Compliance Verification Fee tacked onto everything now, and it came with a little card, Thank You For Your Civic Pride!, with a picture of the president giving a thumbs up.
You sew the stripes on yourself. It’s a required part of the process. The Guidelines say self-application demonstrates personal investment in community standards. The government considered making it a service, letting tailors do it for a fee, but someone in Washington decided people need the work, need to feel the needle going in and out.
“How many’d you end up doing?” Rhonda asks.
“Fourteen items. Three blouses, two skirts, my good dress, couple of sweaters.” Fern holds up the cardigan she’s working on, showing the stripe stitched down the left sleeve from shoulder to wrist. “Took apart the seams on some of ‘em. The winter coat about killed me.”
“I just did the outside of mine. They can’t check the lining.”
“Rhonda.”
“What? They can’t.”
“They got scanners now. Hattie Baskins got cited last week when she wore her coat to the WorkFirst for her week of groceries and they scanned it and found she’d only done the exterior. Said it was Incomplete Compliance Display. Knocked her down forty points. And wouldn’t let her get her groceries for the week.”
Rhonda stops sewing. “Forty points for a coat lining?”
“That’s what I heard.”
“Lord. I’ll fix it.” Rhonda shakes her head and goes back to her needle. “What’s next, they gonna check our underwear?”
They sew in silence for a while. The radio preacher moves on to talking about how suffering builds character and how the faithful should welcome tests of their devotion. Fern’s cat, a fat orange tabby named President (she named him that in 2024 as a joke and hasn’t had the nerve to change it), jumps onto the table and bats at a spool of thread.
“Get down from there.” Fern pushes him off. “Go on.”
“You hear about the Weavers?” Rhonda asks.
“Which thing about the Weavers?”
“They’re gettin’ the gold. Richard got promoted at the plant and Sue started doin’ volunteer compliance monitoring at the school, plus the reports they been filin’. They broke 950.”
“Gold stripes.” Fern whistles low. “That’s somethin’.”
“Sue called me yesterday. Couldn’t stop talkin’ about it.” Rhonda’s jealous and Fern don’t blame her for it. “Said they get to skip the line at WorkFirst now. Said their girl can apply to any college she wants because schools got quotas now for high-status families. Diversity of Excellence, they call it.”
“Must be nice.”
“She asked me what my score was. Just came right out and asked, like it was normal, like she was askin’ about the weather. I told her 806 and she got real quiet and said, Well, you’re still blue, that’s what matters. Still blue. Like I’m barely hangin’ on.”
“Good for them,” Fern says. “Good for them.”
The back door opens without a knock and Darlene Cline comes in carrying a plastic grocery bag in one hand and holding the door frame with the other like she might fall over otherwise.
“Darlene.” Fern sets down her sewing. “Honey, you look awful. Sit down. Let me get you some coffee.”
“I can’t stay long.” Darlene lowers herself into the chair by the window. “Just came to borrow your fabric scissors. Mine broke and I got to get these done by Friday or they’ll cite me for Inadequate Display.”
She pulls a bundle of cloth from the grocery bag.
Orange.
Not the royal blue Fern and Rhonda work with. Orange, bright and harsh like a traffic cone, like a hunting vest, like an ugly pumpkin, like the jumpsuits they make people wear in the Civic Responsibility Communities out by the highway.
Rhonda’s needle stops moving. “Darlene,” Rhonda says. “What happened to you?”
Darlene smooths the orange fabric across her lap. “It’s a whole thing. Started back in November.”
“Because of the changes at the warehouse?”
“That started it. You know Gary lost his job at the warehouse.”
Rhonda and Fern both nod along. Lotta people lost their job at the warehouse.
“Those damn automated systems.” Darlene folds and unfolds the fabric, creasing it with her thumbnail. “So we filed for the Transitional Assistance. Like you’re supposed to. Filled out all the forms, got the verification, did the interview, did everything right.”
“And?”
“And the form asks if you’ve ever received government assistance before. Gary got unemployment for three months back in 2015 when the plant did layoffs. That was years ago, didn’t think nothin’ of it. We answered honest, because that’s what you do, right? That’s what they tell you.”
“Right.”
“Well. Apparently there’s a provision. Since we received assistance before, of course they flagged us for Pattern Review. They said they have to make sure we ain’t developin’ a cycle of dependency.” She says the words like she’s reading them off a form, which she probably has been, over and over, trying to make sense of it. “And while we’re in Pattern Review, they adjusted our score to reflect pending dependency status. We dropped 200 points just for applyin’.”
Fern sets down her coffee cup. “200 points for applyin’?”
“For applyin’ and havin’ prior history. So that put us to 580. And at 580 you can’t get full rations at WorkFirst. You’re limited to Category C, which is the expired stuff, the dented cans, the bread already got mold startin’ if you don’t get there early enough.”
“Right, we heard about that.”
“And Gary can’t work during the Pattern Review because potential employers see you’re under review and most of ‘em won’t hire you on account of the liability. I guess it’s bad for their corporate compliance ratin’ or whatever. So we got no income and we got reduced food access and we’re just supposed to wait.”
The cat jumps onto Darlene’s lap. She pets him absently, running her fingers through his fur.
“So then, while we’re waiting, we can’t pay rent. First time in twenty-two years we missed a payment. And you know our landlord, Jake Driscoll? He feels terrible about it. Says his hands are tied. Landlords got to report non-payment within 48 hours now or they get penalized themselves for a Failure to Report Tenant Delinquency. That’s 100 points off their score. Jake can’t risk it.”
“He reported you,” Rhonda said.
“He reported us. That dropped us another 150 points.” Darlene holds up the orange fabric to the light. “So that put us at 430 now. Gary and me both. Kids too. You need 500 minimum for extracurriculars. So Jerry comes home cryin’ because his friends look at him different now, because he ain’t allowed to play basketball no more, because he’s got to wear orange to school, because the other kids’ parents told them not to play with the orange kids.”
The room goes quiet except for the radio, where the preacher moves on to a segment about the importance of accepting your station in life.
“Can you appeal?” Fern asks. “There’s gotta be some kind of–”
“Yep. Sure did. You file through the Citizen Portal. But filin’ an appeal puts a flag on your file, and while the flag’s active, your score freezes. Can’t go up. Can only go down if you commit new violations while you’re waitin’. And appeals take six to eight months to process. And if you lose, and most people lose, you get docked another hundred points for Frivolous Claim Filing.”
“So you can’t fight it.”
“You can fight it. You just can’t win.” Darlene wipes a few tears away. “The system’s set up so fightin’ makes it worse. So we have to…just take it. Put on the orange and sew our stripes and try not to drop any lower and hope somethin’ changes, except nothin’ changes, but it keeps gettin’ worse, and they keep findin’ new ways to take points off for things I didn’t even know were violations.”
Rhonda picks up her phone from the table. She looks at the screen, scrolling.
“What about your sister?” Fern asks. “She’s in Pittsburgh, right? Can you stay with her while you figure things out?”
“Yeah, I thought we could do that, too. But nope. Can’t. They changed the interstate travel rules. Did you know that? I didn’t know. But now it requires 600 minimum just to get on the interstate and they put up them new scanners at all the checkpoints. Below 600, they turn you back. Below 500, they detain you for Flight Risk Assessment. Because if your score’s that low, they figure you might be tryin’ to run, and runnin’ is a Category One violation. That’s automatic processin’.”
“What if you drove around the checkpoints? Took the back roads?”
Darlene sighs. “Fern, they got cameras on every road. You know how many people report an orange-stripe crossin’ into Pennsylvania without authorization? The bounty on Mobility Restrictions is like $500! People I known my whole life would turn me in for $500. Heck, they’d turn me in for less than that.”
“I just need the scissors,” Darlene says. “Mine broke yesterday. Blade snapped right off. And I can’t buy new ones because my purchasing access is restricted, orange status means you can only buy from the Approved Necessity List, and scissors ain’t on it. They’re considered potential implements.” She laughs. “I’m dangerous now, apparently. Might do somethin’ crazy with a pair of fabric scissors.”
She stands up, wobbles a little, steadies herself on the table. “I’ll bring ‘em back tomorrow. I promise. I just need to finish these stripes or they’ll cite me Friday and I can’t take another hit, Fern. I can’t.”
Fern goes to the drawer by the sink for her extra pair. Finds the fabric scissors, the ones with the orange handles. She’s had them for fifteen years, since her mother passed and she inherited the sewing kit.
“Darlene,” she says. “I can’t.”
“What?”
“I want to. Lord knows I want to. But I can’t lend ‘em to you.”
Darlene stares at her. “It’s scissors, Fern.”
“I know.” Fern can’t meet her eyes. She grips the scissors in her hand, so ordinary they are, how small. “But you’re at 430. I’m at 812. The Self-Sufficiency Preservation Act says anyone in blue status is prohibited from providin’ material assistance to anyone in orange status or below. They’ll charge me with Dependency Enablement.”
“Dependency Enablement. What are you talkin’ about, it’s just scissors!”
“They say it undermines your rehabilitation. That people in your situation need to develop autonomous resource solutions. That if I help you, I’m actually hurtin’ you. Preventin’ you from learnin’ to stand on your own two feet.”
“I been standin’ on my own two feet for forty-seven years.”
“I know.”
“I’m raisin’ three kids and worked two jobs and paid my taxes and volunteer at the church–”
“I know, Darlene.”
“–and never asked nobody for nothin’ my whole life, and now I’m askin’ to borrow scissors, scissors, Fern, just scissors, and you’re tellin’ me you can’t because helpin’ me hurts me?”
“If someone finds out, I lose fifty points. And you get flagged for Solicitation of Cross-Tier Aid. That’s another hundred off your score.” Fern sighs. “You’d be at 330, Darlene. That’s red. One more violation after that and you’re black. You’re processed. I can’t do that to you.”
“So you’re not helpin’ me because helpin’ me might hurt me.”
“That’s what they say.”
“And the fact that not helpin’ me also hurts me, that don’t matter? The fact that I might get cited Friday and drop anyway, that don’t factor in?”
Fern holds the scissors tight. The orange handles dig into her palm.
Darlene’s face crumples. Not all at once, but slow, like paper catching fire from the inside. Her chin trembles, then her mouth, then her whole face collapses in a way Fern’s never seen before, not in forty years of friendship, not when Darlene’s mother died or her marriage almost fell apart or her youngest got sick that time and they didn’t know if he’d make it.
“Please.” The word comes out broken. “Fern, please. I’m beggin’ you. I ain’t never begged nobody for nothin’ in my life, but I’m beggin’ you now. I can’t go to processin’. I can’t. I heard what they do there. I heard about the work camps and the re-education and the–” She can’t finish. She grabs Fern’s arm, her fingers dig in hard enough to bruise. “Please. We been friends since we was kids. Don’t you remember? We used to catch crawdads in the crick behind your mama’s house. We used to tell each other everything. Please, Fern. Please.”
Fern stares at Darlene’s hand on her arm. Avoids her face, wet with tears, twisted with fear. Ignores Rhonda, still sitting at the table, phone in her lap.
“Darlene–”
Fern’s mother, who taught her to sew in this very kitchen, said helping your neighbor wasn’t just nice, it was holy. She thinks about all the times Darlene helped her, drove her to the hospital when she broke her ankle, brought food when her husband left, sat with her through the long nights after her mother’s funeral. She thinks about what kind of person she becomes if she lets her oldest friend walk out that door empty-handed.
“Okay,” she hears herself say. “Okay.”
She puts the scissors in Darlene’s hand.
Darlene clutches them to her chest like they’re made of gold. “Thank you. Oh God, thank you. I’ll bring ‘em back tomorrow, I swear, I’ll–”
“Just take ‘em.” Fern pinches the bridge of her nose. “Just go. Before I change my mind.”
Rhonda stands up.
“Fern. What did you just do?”
“I helped my friend.”
“You broke the law.”
“I gave her scissors, Rhonda. Scissors.”
“You committed Dependency Enablement. That’s a Category Two violation. And she–” Rhonda points at Darlene. “She committed Solicitation of Cross-Tier Aid. That’s Category Three.”
Darlene gulps. “Rhonda. Rhonda, you wouldn’t.”
“I have to.” Rhonda already has her phone in her hand. “If I witness a violation and don’t report it, that’s Complicity in Non-Compliance. Fifty points. I can’t lose fifty points.”
“Please.” Darlene steps toward her. “Please, we been friends for–”
“Stay away from me.” Rhonda backs up, phone raised. “I’m sorry. I really am. But I didn’t make the rules. I’m just tryin’ to survive.”
Her thumb moves across the screen.
“No.” Fern crosses the kitchen in three steps and grabs for the phone. “Rhonda, don’t you dare.”
Rhonda yanks it away. “Get off me!”
“Give me that phone!”
“Fern, stop–”
Fern grabs Rhonda’s wrist and twists, hard, the way she learned in that self-defense class twenty years ago. Rhonda screams and drops the phone. It clatters to the floor and Fern lunges for it but Rhonda is faster, she grabs a fistful of Fern’s hair and yanks her back.
“You crazy bitch!”
Fern’s hand comes up and connects with Rhonda’s face. A single punch. Closed fist, full force, the kind of punch you throw when you’re not thinking anymore. Rhonda’s head snaps back. Blood sprays from her nose, bright red across the white kitchen cabinets.
Rhonda screams. Puts her hands to her face and they come away red.
“You broke my nose! You broke my fucking nose!”
Fern shoves Rhonda against the refrigerator. Magnets scatter. A child’s drawing flutters to the floor.
“Forty years! Forty years I been your neighbor, Rhonda! I brought you soup when you had the flu! I watched your kids when you couldn’t afford a sitter! And you’re gonna report me? You’re gonna report me?”
She shoves Rhonda against the refrigerator again. Rhonda’s head bounces off the stainless steel with a sound like a gong.
“Fern, stop!” Darlene’s voice, somewhere behind her. “Fern, you’re gonna hurt her!”
“Maybe I should! Maybe that’s what she deserves! Turnin’ on her own friends for points, for fuckin’ points–”
Rhonda’s knee comes up into Fern’s stomach. Fern doubles over, gasping, and Rhonda shoves her away and scrambles across the floor toward her phone. She grabs it and stands up.
She wipes blood from her face. “Look what you did. Look what you did to my face. That’s assault, Fern. That’s Violence Against a Fellow Citizen. Category One.”
Fern takes several deep breaths. “Rhonda,” she says. “I didn’t mean–I lost my temper–”
“You broke my nose.”
“I know, I know, but please, don’t–”
Rhonda’s thumb moves across the screen, smearing blood on the glass. “Grievous Harm Complaint. Violent Assault Resulting in Injury.” The phone chirps. That little sound. Bright and cheerful.
Darlene stands by the back door, her grocery bag in one hand. She inches closer to the door.
Fern sees the phone in Darlene’s other hand. Sees the red light blinking.
“Darlene?”
“I got it all. The whole fight. Everything you did.”
“You were filming?”
“Documentation of Violent Non-Compliance.” Darlene lowers the phone but doesn’t stop recording. Her face is still wet with tears but her eyes change, go hard and flat like stones at the bottom of a crick. “That’s worth 400 points. Maybe more. There’s a bonus for video evidence.”
“You were beggin’ me,” Fern says. “Thirty seconds before the fight you were beggin’ me to help you.”
“And you did help me.” Darlene’s thumb moves across the screen. Tap. Tap. The phone chirps. “You helped me more than you know.”
“I gave you my scissors, Darlene! Don’t, they’ll send me to processing for life!”
“I know.” Another tap. Another chirp. “But I got kids, Fern. I got Gary and Jerry and the girls. I can’t let them grow up in orange. I can’t let them get processed because their mama can’t keep her numbers up. I streamed the video live on the portal already anyway.” She looks at Fern, a flash of guilt, or maybe relief, moves across her face. “You understand, don’t you? You’d do the same thing if you were me.”
The phone chirps again. A car door slams. Then another. Then another.
All three women flinch when the hard knock comes on the door.
Thanks for reading!
If you liked the world created in this story, you can continue with two other stand-alone stories in the same world.
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I enjoyed this very much. Thank you for writing it.
I love this!! Well done.