101 Words

If you had rested your head when the PC froze, it would have been memories of the sea sweeping against the shore, palms dancing in the cold breeze, Okon giggling, head placed on your bare chest. But you didn’t. Instead, you placed your legs on the table, bringing your socks into view. You looked at the gold-lined rims and smiled, recalling that night Mum had asked what color socks you wanted and how, annoyed, she slapped you when you said pink.

Soon, you started laughing.

If Mum were alive today, she would have learned that a boy becomes what he chooses.

In the wild, untamed ocean—not on the maps anyone knows—there’s a gaping chasm: perfectly round, deceptively deep. Water spills over the edges, cascading falls that claim many a ship and crew.

That’s how I designed it.

In this waterfall-ringed pit, there’s a growing cove of shipwrecked strangers-turned-companions determined to survive—and escape.

I watch, delighted. Occasionally, I descend, belaying the waterfall. They watch me—their god of wind and waves—eager for bread crumbs.

Occasionally, one lucky soul escapes the proverbial woods, climbing the falls after me.

That’s how I designed it.

Because I’m hungry and tired of fish.

He sits across the picnic table, not exactly in front of me but closer than we’ve been in ages. Curly hair washed in sunshine, dark eyes sparkling with unsaid thoughts.

I could ask him how he’s been. He’d say he’s all right. I’d say that I’m glad, that I’ve been fine too, that life has gone on. But we just watch each other in silence—our own memories keeping us company.

I grind a leaf to pieces, so my fingers don’t betray me. He moves closer and mimics my drill.

Too close.

Impulsively, I take his hand. He doesn’t pull away.

“Oh. That was my favourite eye,” he says, sanguine; poking at the gaping, bloodless socket.

His sister scoffs. “Come off it.”

They watch as the eye rolls under the good dresser. Neither moves to retrieve it.

“No. I mean it. All the things I love leave me.”

“Take the hint.” She bites back, serrated.

“Cruel. And rather unnecessary.”

“It will grow back; it always does.”

“No need to be bitter.”

“It’s not fair. You get as many eyeballs, limbs, and metres of gut as you want, but one bullet takes me out?”

“Come on. You’ve always known I was Mother’s favourite.”

The old me would’ve killed it. Naked and vulnerable, I’d scream, turn off the water, wrap myself in a towel, tear off toilet paper, tiptoe over to smash it, and flush it away.

The old, old me would’ve feigned distress, longing for a knight to slay it. Afterwards, I’d offer myself to him. We’d tangle in silk sheets. I’d wish him gone by sunrise.

Tonight I’ve been crowned. From above, Her Majesty inspires, poised proudly in her intricate web. Her wood-colored legs whisper words:

Spin your web, Highness.

My beauty and power mirror hers. I carefully select my prey. Undisturbed. Patient.

Ken Davis’s cellphone rang. He hoped it was his (increasingly erratic) ex-wife Nell and son Andy, who lived in Chicago. He hadn’t heard from her in months.

A nervous male voice: “Mr. Davis? Nell’s in the hospital. She won’t send you Andy.”

“Who—”

Click.

A bitter pill. Nell was required to allow contact and keep Ken fully informed. He called the grandmother.

“Where’s Andy?”

“I don’t know. I never see him anymore.”

Click.

Ken drove to Chicago and found Andy with the grandmother. She let Andy go. Ken got custody of Andy. He sued Nell, alleging breach of duty, and won.

I named you after my ex-wife, Bertha, for obvious reasons.

She’d always complain we never spent enough time together, but now we’ve been together since growin’ season started.

Your seed come from a Spanish dealer—Atlantic Giant, since you asked. Fifty gallons of water a day and fertilized with a little somethin’ special. You’d started real pretty, but yer kinda deformed now.

The state record for pumpkin is 2,147 pounds, but I reckon you’re gonna beat that, hands down. You must be 2,300 already, and there’s still two weeks of summer left.

Sweet gourd, we couldn’t have done it without her.