JULY 2026: Kate O'Sullivan

"But it was just another bullet in the woods, just another day on the farm."

("The Gum Tree")

For July's Maryland Artist of the Month, Artists from Maryland is featuring Kate O'Sullivan! Below, you will find two of her stories, and an artist's statement.

Kate O'Sullivan is a writer based in the DMV area with a passion for the Chesapeake Bay and the moon. She writes in a variety of genres, and has so far published sci-fi with NUNUM and literary fiction with Sardine Can Collective, amongst others.

The Gum Tree

You’d be surprised how far people will go to claim something that's not rightfully theirs. Or at least, I was. It was August. Late August at that. The sun was blazin’ in the afternoon at nearly a hundred degrees, thick with humidity. I could hear the eagerness of the cicadas in my ear and the occasional bird squall as we neared the Potomac.

We were drivin’ down to Southern Maryland to help tend the farm before the hunting season started, and figure out what stands and blinds we could hunt. Opening day was September 8th that year, a little earlier than usual. As is custom, my Dad and I planned on helpin’ to maintain the blinds and set up a few new tree stands and cameras. My Dad hadn’t stopped bitin’ his nails the whole drive, his footwell a graveyard of hangnails and granola bar wrappers.

“This year is gonna be so much better,” he said. He didn’t wait for me to agree or disagree, too eager not to finish his train of thought. “It’ll be so much easier without all the drama. We’ll have our blinds, they’ll have theirs. No more fightin’ over dumb shit.”

We’d been through the same sentiment around ten times already on the hour and a half drive down. There wasn’t any real new insight that I could’ve added, so I nodded and said, “One hundred percent.” A moment passed. Silence with my father never felt uncomfortable, but his anxiety pulsed through the car like an electromagnetic field, his fear seeping into my nerves. He couldn’t stand the quiet when his mind was swirling.

“Where do you want to hunt on openin’ day, Hazel?”

“How about the gum tree? We never got to go there ‘cause of Don.” My Dad paused for a moment. I could see his jaw clench from the passenger seat, his eyes still glued to the road.

“That’s…true. We can go there now,” he said, seemingly reassurin’ himself. “Check the cameras, see if anything’s been comin’ around.” His voice wavered. I knew he was lookin’ for a reason not to go there. A way out. He’d never admit it, but he was still scared of Don.

Last year, Don Leopold got kicked out of the hunting club. There were around thirteen guys, self included, that paid annually to hunt on the property. We all helped tend the soy beans and set up stands. The less mature of the bunch would bitch and whine when they couldn’t hunt the stands they wanted, Don the primary culprit. Except none of the other members threatened to pump you full of lead if you took the buck they’d been trackin’.

But Don went and messed up, pushed his luck too far. Got in a nasty fight with the farm owner’s son, Trent, and somehow thought he’d win. Got kicked out real quick and moved to Arkansas with his tail between his legs, and his guns piled in his truck bed.

By the time everything had settled down, the owner unexpectedly passed a month later. He was a real nice guy, looked like if Santa Claus grew up in West Virginia and had a hankering for dip, a lump always perpetually in his cheek. Probably the nicotine that got to him, as his heart just stopped pumpin’ blood. His son was only twenty-two, not quite ready to manage everything yet.

But ol’ Santa left a detailed plan for the farm, dividin’ up the stands and blinds to different people. His son said he’d made his will clear. I believe his exact words were, “Any bitchin’ or moanin’ or deer claimin’ will result in a one way ticket off the farm. Don’t make me turn over in my grave and haunt your asses.”

I wasn’t actually sure if we could hunt at the gum tree yet, but I sure as hell wanted to. Don liked to hog it ‘cause it was in the middle of a corn field while still close enough to the tree line to watch the deer stalk out of the woods as the sun dropped. I’d hunted it plenty with my Grandfather. He’d had the balls to stand up to Don. Don was not gonna mess with a decorated veteran marine when all he had was his beer belly and varicose veins. But my Dad was late to the hunting game. He bent the knee when my grandfather passed. I’m not sure I’ll ever forgive him for that. That’s the rough part about getting older, you start to see your parents as people, and sometimes you don’t like what you see.

By the time we pulled into the farm lot, I could see the rest of the guys there. Our longtime friend Jerry raised a hand and waved, wincin’ as he did it. I wondered what he was doin’ movin’ his bad shoulder? I shook my head. Sometimes these guys were real bone heads, but they were like family.

For a couple hours, we toiled in the summer sun, splinters shootin’ into our fingertips as we tried to avoid the scrape of rusted metal from old nails. After the labors, the group rendez-voused at the gum tree overlookin’ the river. Trent cleared his throat, gettin’ the attention of the group.

“Thank y’all for a hard day of work. This’ll make opening day a hell of a lot smoother. I know my Dad woulda been real proud.” A quiet fell over the group. He’d been the one we all looked to, respected the most. It was weird with him gone. The sun didn’t seem to reflect as brightly over the river, the rays obscured by incoming cloud cover.

“Also,” Trent began. Everyone turned their attention back to him. He squiggled under their gazes. “I wanted to let y’all know which stands Dad assigned before he passed so you could plan for opening day.” It was time. He opened the glove box of his ATV and fiddled with a manila folder, pulling some papers out. “I printed each of ya a copy.” Trent handed each of us a paper detailing which stands were to be assigned to who. Everything on the list was expected, down to the claim at the bottom which read, Don Leopold is under no circumstances allowed to hunt this property again. I snorted softly. Good man.

Attached to each paper was also a small envelope. The paper was sheer enough that I could see the green that lived there. I watched my Dad tear it open and flipped through at least a few hundred dollars, maybe a thousand.

“Hopefully this can ease the…” Trent trailed off, looking for the right words to describe that asshole’s stain he left on the farm. “Troubles…that we have faced previously. I’m happy to stick around for a bit if y’all have questions.”

Most of the group bid their goodbyes and left the farm, their trucks kicking up gravel and sand one after the other on the road, like ants in a line. My Dad and Jerry were the only ones left by the time four o’clock rolled around. I sighed and looked over the water, we were certainly gonna be stuck in traffic.

I turned back to the truck, letting the three of them have a moment alone. That was something I learned about bein’ a woman in a space full of men. Sometimes you had to know when to leave, to protect both your own peace and theirs. The three of them were good men, but left alone it gave them a chance to strut their feathers like peacocks, miming a masculinity that they both don’t truly have nor know how to express. They’ll curse and gesture as if they say it sharply enough, nastily enough, it’ll give them the strength they lack.

I don’t care to hear such things, nor will they speak in such a way around me, which I appreciate. Opening the door, the bows are a mess in the back seat and the quiver is juttin’ out, so I hop in and get to organizin’ the clutter.

A few moments later a truck pulls up next to the group. I gaze through the dashboard, wonderin’ which of the guys forgot somethin’. But I watched my Dad freeze, and Jerry took a small step back. I narrowed my eyes as the truck door opened, and saw the squat form of Don Leopold step out of the truck and onto the dirt road.

I instinctively lowered down into the truck so he couldn't see my head, barely peeking over the dash. As he shut the door, I could see him holdin’ a bolt action rifle with both hands. His steps were lazy as he moved towards the three men. I saw Trent try to say somethin’, and Don immediately raised the gun to him, lookin’ down the barrel, shoutin’ words I couldn’t make out.

My heart was beatin’ outta my chest. The left side of the truck was faced away from Don, the back door still open. I wasn’t sure what I was doin’, but I couldn't just watch from the car. Gingerly, I placed one foot on the ground, then another, and grabbed my crossbow from its perch on the leather seat.

I knew he’d see me if I peered from around the sides of the truck, so I lowered myself to the ground. Unsure what exactly to do with the bow, I pushed it under the truck over the soft mud. It glided right to the edge, obscured in the shadow of the vehicle. Once the bow was settled, I crawled on my stomach after it, moving slowly as I crept forward, able to hear a little more.

“The son of a bitch knew that stand was mine, then left me no god damn inheritance! You think I wouldn’t hear about it?” Don’s face was beet red, his chest rapidly rising and failing. I can’t see the three men’s faces, their voices nearly inaudible.

“It was only a few hundred dollars,” Trent said, his voice cracking.

“I don’t give a damn what your father wanted! His hands shook so bad he could barely pull the trigger, no fuckin’ hunter he was. Just another pussy.”

I watched as Trent took an angry step forward towards Don. Don whirled on him immediately.

“You think you’re gonna do jack shit?” Trent froze. In an instant, Don jerked the rifle to the side, firing it off into the woods. The blast echoed around the farm. I wished someone would take interest in the shot and wonder who fired it. But it was just another bullet in the woods, just another day on the farm.

“He’s just a kid,” my Dad said. My eyes widened. Why’s it the one time I wanted him not to say a word, he decided to speak up?

Don Leopold was pointing the gun at my father now. I barely hear them as I knock an arrow in the bow. The arrowtips were sharpened blades that Bass Pro had lovingly named Angels of Death. It was horrible, dangerous form, but I detached the crank from the end of the bow and repositioned it, scraping up against the truck bed as I went. It was awkward, and strained my muscles in a way I wasn’t used to. I pulled and pushed, until I heard a soft click. The arrow was set. Another half turn of the crank and it was removed, ready to be fired.

I set the crossbow down back in the mud and pointed it at Don. It wasn’t hard to position. His heart was only thirty yards from me, well within range of an accurate shot. Don recocked his gun, and was pointing it between all three of them. His movements were gettin’ more erratic. I was surprised his heart didn’t give out with all the shoutin’ he was doin’.

My hands were shakin’ something vicious as I watched him in the crosshairs of the bow. I was thinkin’ shit like: If I shoot while it’s pointed at my Dad, will his finger instinctively pull the trigger and kill him? Will he just drop dead? Will I go to jail? But strangely enough, it’s not the killin’ that’s the hard part to swallow, it’s the clean up.

The gun landed on Jerry and Don took a step closer to him. I’m sorry, I tried to say telepathically to Jerry. If Don pulled that trigger, I couldn’t let it be at my father. I clicked the safety button to “fire” on the bow and took a deep breath, then I pulled the trigger.

For a moment, I thought I missed. Don stepped back once, then twice, unsteady on his feet, before red blood started seepin’ through his shirt. He looked down, unable to process what happened, before stumblin’ then topplin’ down onto his side, the rifle fallin’ into the grass. I realized the arrow went directly through his heart, completely clean in and out.

I didn’t know what to do. My Dad and Jerry were frozen before they started lookin’ around. It’s not like anyone else was there; I was the only possible culprit. I pushed the bow out from under the truck and army crawled out after it. It took a solid minute of crawlin’ before my whole body was out, and I stood up, not bothering to brush the grass stains and mud off.

My Dad and Jerry looked at me with wide eyes and mouths open, and I didn’t move. What did they think of me after I’d shot a man dead? I looked between them, eyes dartin’ around, and they didn't say nothin’. I took another deep breath and walked towards Don. His blood was seepin’ into the ground, the dirt drinkin’ it up like its koolaid. I expected to feel somethin’, anythin’, but all I felt was relief. Don was dead, and my father was alive. What’s done is done.

By the time I’d called the police and their lights were comin’ down the gravel road, Jerry had thrown up in the field and Trent was sitting with his head in his hands about as far away as he could get from the body. My Dad walked over to me and our eyes met. I couldn’t read his expression. His eyebrows were scrunched together, his lips downturned. I opened my mouth to speak but he just pulled me into a tight hug. My eyes started to water. The police cars pulled to a stop, and I can hear the yellin’ again. I’m sure guns were pointed at us. My eyes welled up and I didn't let go of my Dad, and I knew I never would.

//

The Sommelier

The relationship started out as a Syrah, bold and captivating with hints of sweetness and smoke. Robert went to work, parroting the same descriptions over and over to an audience who cared more about intoxication than the art of wine. The day drinkers arrived in golf skirts and Ralph Lauren polos, ordering oysters and slurring stories he could now tell himself. Robert counted the minutes until he could return to his beloved Jane, waiting for him in her black silk robe, dinner on the table with a perfect pairing. Well, Jane’s perfect pairing was always a Chenin Blanc. It was a little too acidic for Robert’s taste, but her smile made up for its lack of sweetness. Their evenings were filled with whispered sweet nothings on lush cotton sheets, the only light in the room from the soft blue and white dock lights lining the Annapolis marina.

But things change. Sweet nothings turned into nights on the couch, and homemade dinners became takeout, if Jane bothered to get him anything at all. Life morphed into an Etna Rosso, volcanic, unpredictable, and often too much.

After the dust of the divorce settled, life became a Chablis, gravelly and unctuous. It was almost too late when Robert learned Jane had breast cancer. They spent her last few months similar to their first few, except now there was more empathy, more complexity, and hints of salt from the tears they’d shed together. That overwhelming sadness hung over them, only vanquished after their mouths became coated again in the acidic dew of a Chenin Blanc.

Robert still stood behind the bar, barely hearing himself or others as he went through the rounds. His boss chastised him several times for pouring more than an ounce at the tastings, but he didn’t care. He only snapped out of his trance when a woman asked, “What about you?”

“I'm sorry?” It was rare that anyone asked him a question, or really noticed him at all.

“You must have tried almost every wine there is, we want to know your favorite.” Robert smiled softly.

“Chenin Blanc,” he said. “Chenin Blanc is my favorite.”

//

Two of my great loves in this life are archaeology (my profession) and hunting. In both spaces, there are certain rules, certain unspoken norms that seem to punctuate every interaction and conversation. I learned this for the first time as a little girl. There were jokes and crudeness I didn't understand, and cruelties that shook me to my core. I slowly came to understand the undercurrents that these men operated by, and the potential consequences of defying their unnatural order.

Then college came along, and I'd put distance from those types of environments and myself. I learned to let myself speak without fear. During undergrad, I was fortunate enough to pursue archaeology, another space often dominated by all-male crews and a constant cloud of cigarette smoke. It was generally alright, yet there was the occasional interaction that reminded me, yet again, of the place I've been assigned, a place I'm not supposed to question or leave.

Then I returned to hunting. I was overjoyed to be back in the woods, but that joy was curtailed, cruelly and unjustly, like a child ripping off the wings of a butterfly simply because they're bored. It became readily apparent that nothing had changed—but I had. What confused me when I was young now enraged me. Some memories now haunted me. And what hurt the most was when those closest to me, those with the power to say something, to stand up against it, did nothing. Their silence became another way these moments endure, and keep the unspoken rules intact.

So maybe "The Gum Tree" is an expression of a critical juncture—a point of no return. Conversely, "The Sommelier" is a piece of freedom, an ideal place where we can live beyond those systems that define us, and be the people we are capable of being to one another.