Asa is an unwilling sensitive with a fear of mirrors and anything reflective.
Amy is an unwitting empath.
Together they are responsible for murder.
THE SHIPPY SIBLINGS are rarely alone, despite living as secluded orphans on the remains of...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
ONE BUS SERVICED STERLING Hill, rolling up and down the 101, grinding as far as the homely streets of King City. The highway miles paced the chrome trim, and the bullet-shaped windows mimicked the forward lean of the bus as it trundled passengers to routine destinations. Once a month, the tan coach, calligraphed in mint-green accents and shining under the papery California sun, made a round trip to Monterey Bay. (A lark if you could afford it.) An old 1950s stub-nosed beast, the sleek body of the Sterling Hill bus gave the impression of fast action, like James Dean in a quick game of Chicken. Sadly, the opposite was true. Anyone reliant on the bus line timetable soon learned: Sterling Transit was thematic. It was always late.
The planter wall beneath me was already warm, subjected to the sun's scrutiny for the hour before I arrived. It ran the length of the bus stop. A long rectangle faced by cracked cement, the planter, tall enough that my heels chipped it further where I perched, separated the US Post Office parking lot from the daily "bus squatters" who made waiting on public transportation their profession; squatters like me despite this not being my usual sidewalk to squat on. Behind me, dudleyas grew, overwhelming the town-instituted dirt patch to spread heavy on the flat-topped wall. Green succulent leaves, waxy and plump, looked like curved fingers tipped bright red. Bunched together in the same way roses kept their petals, dudleyas made for pretty ground cover but looking at them now, all I could think of was my fingers, ice cold, dipped in old blood.
The dumpster yawns wide open, the trash bags lump inside like cold sores.
I scrubbed at the grainy sleepers stuck in my eyes. It'd been a long couple of hours folded in half on a forgotten office chair. Across the street was the police station. A chunk of brown shaped into an atrocious version of modern-day adobe, its smooth clay walls and sculpted arches sat angled on the corner. A set of glass doors watched the blue cross signs of Chapel St and Butte, the words 'Sterling Hill Police' set prominently on its brow. Inside, men and women in lackluster uniforms puttered about, answering phone calls, writing tickets, and shaking down the occasional junky lost over the town line. The crime rate on paper in Sterling Hill was next to zero. But I'd learned nothing—or no one, if we're going the distance—that looked and acted good ever was.
The pale yellow sun warmed my bare arms. My jacket was off and padded beside me. Rarely did I sit in my shirt sleeves, but the absence of shade voided all other options. California weather was funny like that. Ablaze in one spot. Chilly three steps to the left. Ordinarily polite, except in August when all bets were off. The West Coast was miraculous and downright dirty in the same breath.
I pulled at my cigarette as it dwindled. I could taste the burnt leaf, sugar, and whatever else—tar?—rolled up inside the unassuming white paper. Once, in an article, Brooke Sheilds, bless her, said: "Smoking can kill you. And if you've been killed, you've lost a very important part of your life." I nearly put myself in Sterling General, busting a gut over that. I laughed it out behind the Dime Stop register, a wall of cigarette cartons displayed behind me. What horseshit.What a fucking riot! She was a gorgeous actress, but she made no sense unscripted. Or maybe she was plain brilliant. Either way, someone had copied and printed it unapologetically, and now, whenever I lit up, a tiny portion of my brain flickered back to those words.
