THE CREATION OF SISTERHOOD

Rebecca Day

she held a knife to my belly. Move and I’ll stab you, she said.

I had to have been six or seven. Any older, and it wouldn’t have been those knives. Any older, and we wouldn’t have been standing in front of that dishwasher, unloading those dishes.

For those seconds that I was still, time turned inside out. I knew I would return again and again to this moment.

How must it have been to be ten and have a new stepdad and a baby sister all at once? How must it have been to be a part of a couple—a single mother and daughter, with a sometimes there dad and a dog, Daisy—and have an accident made permanent? An accident with two parents with matching last names. How must it have been to turn your playroom into a nursery?

The knife was a steak knife. I wasn’t old enough to use those knives yet and thought if I touched one I’d wind up without a finger. I stood still and held my breath and sucked in.

Beauty hurts, she’d say as she yanked a round, spiky brush through my hair. I’d be poked and prodded, my baby teeth yanked out and beauty marks drawn on. Sometimes I’d be Madonna in her cone bra (though mine was made of construction paper), and sometimes I’d be pinned into old cheer uniforms. Other times I’d have a stuffed shirt and miniskirt, looking like a 6 year old Pretty Woman extra. I hated when it hurt, but I loved the attention. Or, rather, I loved to be included. This was around the time I started pulling my hair out.

I had short hair, a bob, because it was more manageable that way. I wanted long hair, hair like my sister’s and hair like my best friend in school had—hers was so long that when she pulled it taught she could sit on it. We were a cute inseparable duo, but it was she who got all the compliments and me whose name was often forgotten. I overheard my mother talking about my need for a haircut and I tried to protest, but she said it must be done. I started twirling and pulling my hair. The beautiful women in TV and movies were always playing with their hair—wasn’t this the same thing? If I pulled enough out, maybe I wouldn’t need a cut? If beauty hurts, mustn’t the inverse also be true? If I hurt, surely I am beautiful.

She held the knife to my belly and I looked down in shock. There was a little dimple where the tip poked my tummy. I looked up expecting to see safety, family, but saw only ice.

Beauty hurts is a catchphrase used to shush, to quiet the tears. The hurt is normal and expected if you are to be beautiful and exceptional and accepted.

She put the knife in the drawer and laughed. I must have cried, or I cried out in distress. The fear was real, and it was clear. And she laughed. She laughed at me.

A sister complicates things, but a doll?

A doll is what you make her. A doll smiles and twirls and stays where you put her. A doll has no fear and does not talk back. A doll is never in on the joke. A doll does not have creativity, she is created.

Move, and I’ll stab you. Sucking in my tummy, holding my breath. Existing on a pedestal. Always dressed up, never as myself.

Wired Break

raul cueto osorio Digital Photograph.

THE ALASKAN BARTENDER Sarah

Samms

The bartender pours my last drink. She asks me, “What brought you to the last frontier in the first place?” Fixing together words that make me think. I say, “To leave my sadness behind. You see, she hasn’t been so kind. I’m here to leave my sadness somewhere beautiful. So that she can find happiness too.”

LEFT SIDE ATAXIA (CLUMSY VOLUNTARY MOVEMENTS)

Bambi Moss

My arms holding tight, trying, to touch, feel, stroke but I can only give you half I can only give half of everything you help me hold your shaft for me, for my shaking hand small. clumsy.

I use to pick up small things to entertain the others laughter rings as pennies slip between my fingertips bells jingling on my cap

I feel left a limb possessed, I feel ghosts in my fingers and I can’t curl my toes even when we fuck

Leitmotif Cityscape 1

shelby morGan Digital Photograph.

Leitmotif Cityscape 2

shelby morGan Digital Photograph.