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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CAUSTIC FUMES FROM THE industrial floor cleaner burrowed in my nose and refused to budge as I stepped outside for my final smoke break of the evening. I couldn't even taste my Marlboro. No satisfying dry sting to offset the mundane closing duties, and it irritated me. It's also why I didn't smell the dead body until I touched it; I'm a hundred percent certain.
The glass doors to the Dime Stop soft-closed behind me, backlit by the wan florescent lights inside that bounced off the pockmarked ceiling tiles. I stood in what little light leached onto the sidewalk, tired, blissfully unaware of the nightmare about to unfold in the next fifteen minutes. With one quick, unsatisfying puff, I cut to my preferred trashcan at the farthest brick corner of the building.
The Dime Stop was a convenience store located a dash away from the 101, easy for tourists but small enough for long-time locals to feel relevant. It was my sustenance hell, livelihood, and a quick half-gallon of milk when we needed it.
I was not too fond of milk.
Exhaled smoke clouded around me. I placed the crumpled Marlboro carton, a stainless lighter, and my quarter (because it seemed intent on traveling out of my front pocket alongside everything else) atop the metal canopy covering the four-foot-tall trash receptacle. Green paint curled away, revealing rust underneath. I leaned on it regardless. The liner had been changed by me less than two hours prior, so there was no offensive garbage to worry about, not that I could even smell it. I sniffed experimentally. Nope. Nothing.
The night was colder than comfortable, and I hunched my shoulders to hide inside my oversized bomber jacket. The worn cuffs, brown ribbed-knit, inhaled most of my hands. There was less to process, with only my stubby nubs called fingers out to interact with the world. I liked it that way.
My mother blamed my inability to stretch for chords on my pale, short fingers. As if being born small-handed and genetically "bad" at reaching octaves was a plot to victimize her and her grandmother's precious, off-brand piano. "Stop smudging the notes," she would say whenever my pinky finger clipped incongruous keys—smudging the notes. Like it was a technical term and not a made-up criticism, a Pollycism. Unfortunately, her early-onset arthritis meant I had never witnessed her prolific piano playing. I only had her word and a vague note from Pastor Tom thanking her for the "musical blessing" as proof.
I took another pointless pull at the cigarette. The tip flared brightly. The delicate paper peeled and flaked to black under the cherry heat. Burn in Hell, Polly.
Sour, I scrapped the cigarette across the pimpled brick wall and placed it back inside the half-filled carton to revisit later. Ten past eleven p.m., and the only cars in the parking lot belonged to my shift mate, Dalen, and our reliable patron, "Gay Ray." A nickname I wasn't enthusiastic about, but my brain grappled with changing. I was curious to know if anyone else in town referred to the skinny little man as such or if it was only us crude coffee slingers at the Dime Stop, but either way, I felt awful about it. I did. I hoped he was oblivious to what people called him behind his back, snipping out a singular piece of his existence as a reference, but I wasn't stupid. My last name was Shippy. Shitty Shippy, if you asked anyone from my graduating class. All of who I hoped were dead.
