Sisters
Amelia Gray
Lindsay Hunter






My sister leaves the room because I tell her to and because we all know the boy is about to make his move. I let him and I make sounds. I know my sister is out there on the couch like a wax statue of herself, sitting prim and unfucked. That is not my fault.

When we were kids we had a kite with colored fins. It moved in the sky like a fish in a bowl. While the boy is finishing I keep my eyes closed. The kite leaves smeary colored tails there.

I walk the boy to his car, a cherry red two-door missing a headlight. The boy is running the back of his hand over his mouth. How do you see in the nighttime without that light, I ask him, and I’m teasing him a little, this is the part I like the most, the teasing that comes after. But the boy just shrugs, says he doesn’t know, and I believe him.

Inside, my sister has the television on One Life to Live. A man and a woman are kissing in a graveyard. The woman says something, it sounds like Bury me, oh bury me. My sister snorts, curls up. Her feet are bare. Her feet are ugly and pale and I want to tell her but she’s been through enough for one day I guess.

I have this idea about having a baby with no eyes. There would be blanks where there should be eyes, I mean like smooth skin. The absence of vulgarity, Grandmom would say, and then she would say, Pudding mallobar pop. I could press my hands on the blanks. He could sense the heat in my hands and have visions. We could travel to places and give a talk.

My sister thinks my idea is screwy but her kidneys are screwy. She sits in cold bathwater and pees. She saw me looking once and opened her mouth and pulled at parts on her body but it was just me in the house. I went downstairs and turned on the television. Judge Judy said she was the boss. I could hear my sister trying to drown herself. Later she calmed down and came to sit next to me and watch the television. I was looking at the Judge Judy studio audience and wondering what I could do to get into that show, like inside the show. Maybe the boy would go on with me or another boy, and my sister could sit in the chair off by the plaintiff box and nod.

We could get our hair done maybe. One morning I pulled a long hair out of my no-no spot like a footlong hair and felt like there was a grownass woman in there but like she had curled up so small that I couldn’t even feel her.

My sister sits next to me and eats corn chips. Her arm is wet on my arm but I don’t say it’s a pee arm, like that’s what I’m thinking but I don’t say that. She keeps eating corn chips real loud. Something good could happen to the boy and we could have a baby. Even if the baby had eyes, I could love it.

Something good could happen to any other boy. I am not choosy in that way. The kite is always before me and I just watch it, that is why I am here, to watch the tails of that kite and to name its colors.

My breath is sharp with the taste of the boy, of his salt and fear, I can smell it and it is rotten and it is aflame. Red, I tell my sister, and orange. And the blue color of your blood in your arms.

She knows what I mean, nods, scratches at one of the lumps on her feet. She is watching the television like it is laying her life out for her, First you will marry a murderous man, then you will live by the water, then you will be convinced that the sun in the sky is a heart in a body and it is falling.

I put water in a pot to make her some dinner. She likes macaroni and cheese with lots of milk and butter. It’s the milk and butter she is after, she is soft in the middle, her stomach like a rumpled quilt, I am bones and she is flesh.

I hand my sister the bowl of macaroni. She takes it from me, spooning noodles into her mouth, splashes of bright yellow landing on her shirt, on her chin, it is as if her moving mouth is a melting goldfish, she wipes with the back of her hand, whispers, Did you like it? and I say, What’s not to like? and I take the bowl from her, tell her to close her eyes, I feed her spoonfuls from the bowl, I watch her eyelashes tremble, her eyes moving behind the lids, following that kite, and I love her, it’s true, I love her more when she isn’t seeing me.


Amelia Gray is the author of AM/PM (Featherproof Books) and Museum of the Weird (FC2). Find her here.

Lindsay Hunter is a writer living in Chicago. Her first book, Daddy’s, is out now from featherproof books. Find her here .

Artwork by Sean Craven.