Promise

“All the time we’ve spent deciphering secrets” by Jolene Armstrong

The morning after our older sister runs off, Piper and I do what’s normal: shake Mom awake, leave water for the stray cat, make breakfast—store brand CoCo Puffs for me, coffee for her. Piper doesn’t drink it, though. Doesn’t even stir it. The powdered creamer clumps together, sprouts from the liquid like squat white mushrooms. I notice on my last bite, so I let the last two pieces of cereal twirl in the milk until they trail brown behind them, until they turn to mush.

Later, we go to the arroyo and play with the girls on the street. Piper doesn’t like taking me, but Mom yells at her. They’re all circled and laughing when we get there, legs frosted with sand, hair with sweat. She says sorry for my baby brother, like she always does. It makes my cheeks hot.

I only watch them play—sometimes Amelia, our sister, would watch also. The log near the sagebrush is mine. I sit there, plucking weeds from the orange dirt, linking their spindly roots. Sometimes, I smash ants too.

They’re playing wedding today. A girl named Kellie makes daisy-chains. Piper wears one around her neck even though she’s allergic. There’s a mud cake. It’s nearly done. The girls press their fingers to the sand, caress it, watch bits and pieces roll to the ground, snag to skin. They plunge twigs into the top to make an “H.” A call. A beacon. I don’t know who “H” is.

They dance together when it's finished. Squeeze each other’s hands and whirl dust storms around their feet. Squeal. Waltz. Kiss cheeks.

Piper still sits on her knees at the wedding cake, slicing the mud with her nails. Her hair is braided like Amelia’s, but messy. Arms are sunburned. The girls are still dancing, bubbling like Coke, and she stands. I pretend I’m not watching as she comes over. Falls next to me with her head against the log and legs spread out in front of her.

I ask, are you done playing?

She tears off her daisy chain and stares at the yellow, piss-colored sky.

about the author

Miranda Williams (she/her) is a twenty-two-year-old writer from New Mexico. She received her BA and MA in Literature from Arizona State University where she mostly studied feminist and queer theory. Her work appears in BOOTH, Blue Earth Review, Third Point Press, and the Best of Small Fictions Anthology, among others, and has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize. Find her on Instagram at @mirandaiswriting.

About the Artist

Jolene Armstrong is an associate professor of literature at Athabasca University. Her art ("Artist/Machine") has appeared in Macromicrocosm, and in 2022, she has art ("Cosmic Sunflower") appearing in an upcoming issue of Wild Roof Journal, with a translation of a Hjalmar Söderberg short story, "The Blue Anchor" coming up in the Hunger Mountain Review. Later in the new year, her short story "Jólakötturinn or The Yule Cat" will be published in the The Society for Misfit Stories. In her spare time, she assembles in images and words the shimmering, sometimes terrifying, ephemeral beauty that marks our collective existence on this blue planet.  She lives and works in amiskwaciy-wâskahikan treaty 6 territory (Edmonton). www.jolenearmstrong.ca