Monday, February 1, 2010

My Sister Miranda: a work of fiction


I finally told my sister I’m in love with her. I know, I know, I’m a huge creep. But how do you think I feel? I only just realized it today ... this morning, actually. I was standing in my bathroom, brushing my teeth. I spit out the toothpaste and I just thought yup, I love her.

I love Miranda.

I am in love with my sister. Thank God our parents are dead.


There is a very good reason I have Miranda tied up in my bathtub. She tried to kill me when I told her! Like, literally tried to kill me, with a very big knife. In hindsight, telling her in the kitchen was a bad idea. The kitchen seems to house a number of items one could use to kill one’s brother.

I’ve always thought it would be terrible to be stabbed with a dull knife. I kind of think I could handle a sharp one because it would just go right in. But the dull one would rip you.

The knife Miranda tried to kill me with was dull. I know this because it was my knife, pulled from my knife block. A knife block that rests on the wood laminate counters that might have been in style in the early 80s. Counters that are out of style in the late oughts. I hate my fucking counters. I wish I had money so I could replace them, or just buy a new house.

A house that doesn’t have my sister tied up in the bathtub.

A knock at the door.


I close the bathroom door and walk to the front door, through a short hallway and through a tiny living room. My house is unassuming, at least that’s how the “realtor” described it. I look through the peephole.

No one is there.

I lean with my back against the front door. I sigh. How do you convince your sister to fall in love with you? I don’t know.

Another knock. Jesus, thanks for the panic attack, invisible dude at the front door. I look through the peephole again and there is no invisible dude. There is a visible young woman with visible cleavage and a ton of make-up. You know when pretty women wear too much make-up and you want to just grab them and shake them and scream damn it! Stop wearing so much fucking make-up! You would be so beautiful if you just stopped with the make-up!

Wow, should I do that now? I mean, I already did a bunch of other crazy shit today. Maybe this is my time to shine! God is trying to tell me to change the world!

I throw the door open.

-- Chuck?

Hm. That is my name. How does this pretty young woman with too much make-up know my name?

-- Yeah?

She is very pretty. She is wearing a pair of skinny jeans. The kind I always make fun of but secretly find sexy on a skinny girl. She is wearing yellow patent-leather high heels. She is probably 5 feet tall, but she seems taller because she is so skinny and those heels!

-- So.

I look up. She is smiling because she knows I think she is hot.

-- Are you ready?

-- Ready for what?

She pushes me inside the house. I don’t stop her. She closes the front door behind her. We stand in my tiny living room.

-- You don’t remember me, do you?

I don’t remember her. Shoot. You’d think I’d remember a cute chick who can really wear a pair of skinny jeans. I’m stupid.

-- You know, you really shouldn’t wear so much make-up. You’re a very pretty girl and you don’t need it.

-- You haven’t changed one bit.

She walks to me and grabs my dick in her left hand. She grabs my dick right through my shorts! She starts stroking my dick and I almost forget my sister, whom I love, is tied up in my bathtub.

-- Are we ... hm ... what are we doing now? Wait, why are you here? Stop for a second!

She stops and pulls off her tank top. She has what most gentlemen would describe as a perfect set of titties. I really want her to take off her bra. Like, really bad.

And she does. What sister?

We fuck on the floor of my tiny living room. I cum on her perfect titties. She goes into the bathroom to clean herself up and then she leaves.

I don’t realize any of this until it’s too late.


My mom would often accuse me of overreacting. If she were still alive, she would probably say I’m overreacting right now.

How could you put your sister in the trunk of your car and just skip town? Responsible people just don’t do things like that!


I park the car at a rest stop on Interstate 4, halfway between Tampa and Orlando. I buy a bag of pretzels from a vending machine and I eat them.

I think.

I think there’s probably not any way out of this situation. And then I remember ...

I remember her name!

Stephanie Marvelle. Oh, how I remember your name. You grew up, didn’t you? You little minx! I cannot believe the way your name just appears on the whiteboard in my head, like a Deus Ex Machina in my own shitty story of a life.

I think it’s time to cash in a favor.


Miranda has been in the trunk for a few hours. She quit banging about 15 minutes ago. I can’t get her beautiful face out of my mind.

Here’s the thing about my sister: she’s perfect. I know she’s perfect because the guys I know are always telling me she’s perfect. She’s the kind of girl most men want but wouldn’t know what to do with if they got her.

She is tall: 5 feet, 10 inches; she has black hair; she is brilliant; she puts up with my nonsense; she has green eyes that make the small of my back tingle.

She is my angel.


She is dead.


-- Hi, Stephanie!

Stephanie looks surprised.

-- Who is she?

A question I anticipated. Unfortunately, I freeze.

--Jesus. Come in.

I carry my dead sister into Stephanie’s apartment. I sit her down at the kitchen table and open the fridge. Beer, milk, Sunny D ... string cheese. I choose beer because I’m a raging alcoholic and I’m sober and the love of my life is staring at me with lifeless eyes.

Beer! Oh my God, do I love beer! My favorite part about beer is when you drink it too fast and you almost throw up and that taste fills your sinuses and your eyes water. I’m a glutton for punishment, my mom used to say to me.

I drink this beer as fast as I can. I want that feeling right now.

-- Is she dead?

-- Yeah. Can I grab another?

Stephanie nods.

And all of a sudden, I am no longer myself. I am an angel delivering the Good News and I am surrounded by He who is All. I dwell in perpetual light and I am a servant of glorious hope and everlasting joy!

So that passes and I’m drinking another beer.

-- You didn’t fuck her, did you?

-- No. Why?

Hm. She thinks I’m crazy. And it turns me on.

-- We should do what we did earlier, but with her watching.

And we do. And I feel conflicted.


When you’ve already killed the woman you love, it’s not such a big deal to kill a woman you like to fuck.

And so I do. So long, Stephanie.

I take the yellow heels with me as I exit the apartment. I leave the women.


I guess I thought it was important to take those heels. I can’t remember. They remind me of art, like the kind you’d find in an ostentatious gallery in New York City.

I like a nice high heel. It makes the calf flex and I love a nice calf muscle. It’s my favorite part of the female body.

Stephanie had interesting calves. They were poorly defined, but they were proportional to the rest of her. She had an eating disorder and giant fake tits.

Miranda didn’t. She was perfect.


The pills are starting to kick in.

Did I live a perfect life? I guess not. But I loved. I loved with all of my heart.


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