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...
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I STOOD ON THE BACK porch in my pajama bottoms and the fuzzy cardigan, taking a piss as the newborn sunlight tiptoed across the suede-colored hills in the distance to slide into the yard. The subtle light illuminated the barn roof on my right, revealing the exposed rafters that poked through the rotting shingles like bare ribs. It'd already passed over the corpse of the ancient red tractor abandoned on the edge of the field and was almost to the graveyard of a flower bed that I currently graced with the contents of my bladder.
Our farmhouse had many peculiarities, but one human-related oddity was the bathroom. There was one in the house, on the second floor only. What a pain in the rump. I had no interest in traveling upstairs until the pager I kept in my saggy pocket forced me to untangle the clean clothes squirreled away in the corners of my bedroom. Until then, I'd pee off the porch.
I don't know how long I stood there after finishing, tucking everything back under cover and hugging the sweater close against the chilly air that nuzzled my skin. In the half-shade of the barren, dusty yard, I watched smallish black shapes skirt and shoot around like busy rats. They popped from the dirt, dodging this way and that, disappearing again into the soil without effort. I wasn't afraid of them. They bothered me about as much as the sparrows scratching seeds along the fences. I called them the 'bobbers,' reminiscent of the plastic floaters on a fishing line. They were an energy for sure. From where?—I didn't care to examine that question.
After a while, the sun was in full swing, warming the back of the house and my toes. About this time, the cakey-vanilla scent of pancakes wafted through the screen door behind me, making the air delicious and confusing because when Amy said, "I'll be home for pancakes," it was more a sentiment than fact. My stomach grumbled. I inhaled deeply, appreciating the homey smell despite the mystery. Whatever was cooking smelt fresh. Somebody had excavated our pantry and uncovered actual flour, not the crusty Bisquick.
I should've guessed who right then and there. But I could be pretty stupid when the opportunity arose, and mixing early morning with a sleepless night and a quaalude or two had me on the ropes.
I walked barefoot through the mud room and into the kitchen. The screen door shut in my wake, snapping hard against the weathered casing. The echo clashed with my voice:
"Amy—? Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!"
"Are you making a list?" Aunt Cindy half-turned to face me from her place in front of the clunky gas stove. She smiled. Her lips twisted briefly upward, but her eyes remained flat blue. The smile was a cordial action, not an expression of true feelings. I had an inkling she was here on a mission. She was in full-fledged uniform: khaki pants and a matching blazer open to the waist revealing a hot pink sweater that blinded me. On her feet, the same congruent pink held a pair of sharp-toed booties hostage. Like Ma, Aunt Cindy was as blonde as bleach would go without claiming a strand of her lion's mane perm.
