101 Words

Mari would fabricate a goal at the beginning of each year, then immediately forget about it. However, it was 2020, a fresh decade, and Mari swore to achieve her resolution: to persevere. Vague, but uncomplicated, right?

Then it came. Mari couldn’t waitress or run outside. She looked after her son twenty-four/seven. Persevere. Mari combed the internet for jobs, jump-roped, and faithfully tried to explain the art of subtraction.

Her trembling hands dropped the phone when Mama whispered, “I’m infected.” Mari picked her phone back up. Persevere.

She wrote her job application and the tear-stained obituary with the same pen. Persevere.

He manipulated his skin and muscle mask with clumsy human digits, reshaping the features until he’d formed a perfect smile. He froze it in place. Satisfied, he turned away from the bathroom mirror and strode into the kitchen where his wife was chopping vegetables.

He stepped close and wrapped his arms around her; she tensed and frowned when she saw his face.

Their instructor halted the simulation. “You’re meant to display contriteness, not some inane grin. You can’t keep dashing to another room to correct your façade.” She raised her tentacles in frustration. “Didn’t they teach you anything at Infiltration College?”

He was what dad called a runner for O’Connor’s newsagents, and I believe (although it might not be true) that he lived above the shop, with boxes of out-of-date Christmas cards, amid old lamp shades, porcelain, and Sellotape.

Dad called him “slow,” which I never understood. He was speedy, in brown flared slacks and dirty white sneakers, using some secret portal to appear with messages and parcels in random shops, streets, and corners of town.

I hadn’t seen him in years, the shop is long boarded up, but I swear I saw him last week, smaller, but as fast as ever.

“Dad, are you crying?”

I am, but I’d rather not explain why to my observant daughter, catching our breath here at Overlook Point.

I’d rather not talk about that August night in ‘86, with Angie up here and me down on one knee. I’d rather not recall Angie’s slight step away, or her surprised and wary “Oh!” Her mouth didn’t need to say no, because her eyes were already communicating her sad response.

My ten-year-old knows that ring, twisting it around on her mother’s finger. I love my wife, my daughter’s mother, but she is not my first, my Angie.

“Hi, Millie,” said Dr. Deens. “No appetite lately, huh?”

“Looking at Colleen’s empty crib, I’m just not hungry. I can barely look after the house, Sam, or myself.” Her hand covered a gravy stain on her dress. “Why bother eating? I throw it up anyway.”

She thought, Why bother even living? but kept that to herself—for now.

After the exam, Doc offered his hand. “Congratulations, Millie. You’re eight weeks pregnant.”

Millie drove home slowly. The house looked strangely different. Homey. She lifted Sam’s rumpled sweatshirt off the couch and placed it into the hamper.

She fixed herself a ham sandwich.

I haven’t slept for almost four days. That’ll be 96 hours. I don’t know how I’m still functioning. I don’t even feel tired anymore.

Yesterday, I started seeing things that aren’t really there. At least, I don’t think they’re really there. Maybe they always have been, and I just didn’t notice before. The walls pulsate and move, and terror-stricken faces with mouths stretched wide in silent screams come up out of the floor.

I’ve enjoyed my stopover, but it’s back to work today. I’m piloting a 17-hour red eye from London Heathrow to Perth.

This is going to be interesting.

The sky hung heavy, drooping as if the weight of carrying the stars each night had become unbearable. As a consequence, turbid fog now snaked through the streets so thick that even the piercing mews of roaming alley cats were dampened. Only amber emittents from regular street lamps provided any sort of light. The moon hadn’t so much as tried to make an appearance.

But it didn’t matter that it was missing. The gnarly tree roots in the city square were her cradle, the muttering of the leaves her lullaby. Counting shadows instead of sheep, she breathed a sigh of relief.