101 Words

Before the Marcellus Shale gave up its gas the Roebeckers never quite made thirty thousand a year. Now they’ve millions.

Mr. Roebecker’s at eighty-two while his wife these sixty years is seventy-seven.

The Roebeckers lack children, family, or friends.

“Cathy’re care’n for anything?”

“I’m set-up, Tom,” says a grinning Cathy.

“What ’bout a trip, say to Florida, say Daytona Beach?”

“No interest, no, nowhere I wanna go.”

“Shame it’s lotsa money, who’ll get it?” says Tom, itchin.

“Somehow, the government.”

“Always the way,” says Tom sulking.

“Seems like.”

“Where’d you put them checks?”

“My jam jar,” says pennywise Cathy, salivating pleasantly.

Each cold drop dripping down the edge of her umbrella mocks her. She loathes the muddy makeup the drops paint over her shoe.

She looks right and left again—the same routine she has kept for minutes—but no headlight approaches the dark end of the untarred backstreet.

She hates to miss the party.

A light closes in on her. Its radiance blinds her. A van. The driver rolls down the window.

“Hey! No cars coming down this cursed road. The bridge’s down.”

The van zooms off.

She walks the mud back to the house, to reason with her nagging husband.

The angry mob of Hindus continued to rain blows on Abdul, not even checking whether he was carrying beef as someone had reported over the phone. It was only after ensuring there was no life left in him that the crowd dispersed.

One of his attackers sent word to family members. Crying inconsolably, they arrived at the scene.

Their neighbour Ashraf was with them. “We can’t allow our people to be lynched. Revenge must be taken. Revenge is the way out.” He sounded furious.

He had never liked Abdul making advances towards his daughter.

The beef rumour had claimed another victim.

When the frozen carcass of Nathanial Higgins was discovered at the bottom of the ravine, his children readily admitted to rolling their deceased father’s body over the cliff and down the hillside just as the latest snow storm of the century was about to hit. They reasoned that since they could not afford a proper burial, their father would find eternal peace in the nature he so dearly loved. But as the children were being released into their aunt’s care, Sheriff John Willard couldn’t help but think back two years ago, when their mother had perished in that suspicious barn fire.

November winds churned the wild sea as Dave yanked at the rope. He shivered, though not because of the cold. He was remembering a time when the mast broke, causing the ship to flounder. All on board were drowned.

His father became a ghost of a man, haunting the cellars at Widow Mercer’s. The skipper, Scotty Grimes, left a wife and two kids.

Dave yanked at the rope again but it refused to give. Through the lashing rain, ghostly shadows were approaching. Floating on the waves.

Scotty Grimes held out his hand. “Come on lad, it’s time to go,” he said.

The Scholar knew the town would come for him, eventually. He told me many times.

Their fury tore through the manor, the brain vaults, the slabs. The lightning cages. And me, cowering, stitches strained with pallid muscle, pleading in pantomime.

They would have killed me. One brave woman made them understand. She took my claws in gentle hands and led me out, a victim like the rest.

I saw the Scholar, broken at the tower’s base. So small a man in death. My saviour spat and pulled me safely away.

Excellent creations, both.

I shall make more when I am able.