101 Words

Every month, as if an act of penitence, Shunya hunches over the kitchen counter, but subtly, so her mother-in-law doesn’t notice. Her crotch never feels fully clean for those four days—always sticky. Sister-in-law comes, leading with her belly, swollen with purpose. Mother-in-law fusses, demands jilebi, garam pani. “For my only grandchild,” she says, waspish. Shunya sucks her teeth, tucks her uncoiling need into her trim, flat, waistband. She rolls out rotis, slapping them hard on the smoking tava. The heat sears brown scars onto the desiccated dough. The women devour them, giving her the empty vessel to scrub clean.

My backpack spilled open and everything I owned clattered across the floor. My favorite mug shattered on impact.

I scrambled to gather the pieces before the dog could cut his mouth, and I told myself I wouldn’t miss him; I pushed his thoughtless, drooling face away.

“We can fix it,” said Liza, eyes red but frown resolute. She had decided it was fixable. She had decided that it was hers to decide.

“There are too many pieces,” I replied, tossing them into the bin.

I carried my bag to the car. I continued to lie to myself about missing the dog.

Henry reached for his daily newspaper. Then he remembered Marge had canceled the subscription, insisting he read the news online. 

Meandering to his study, he saw where his Philco radio once stood. Marge had added it to the donation pile, insisting he listen to Alexa. 

Wanting exercise, Henry pressed Start Walk on his watch. He’d taken the same route for years, yet Marge insisted he track his steps.

Later, Henry lay in bed wondering if Marge would still be here if he’d kept her ventilator plugged in longer, but she’d insisted everything be sent to some cloud.

So he sent her.

I await the same sigh that comes everyday like clockwork now, from my own breath, an old woman that I don’t recognise, a voice so frail. I croak for the children to come in. And as they come, so do my only doses of joy and love, each of those afforded by a kiss on the cheek.

I imagine a bigger life. I am riding on a dragon; I leap from tree to tree. I am a poet dreaming in her warm cottage, or a seamstress working on her orders.

I did it for you. It was really all for you.

The first golden leaf descends to the pavement like the sun falling from the sky, only to be crushed under a leather boot seconds later. The final curtain call has commenced, and the city heaves a collective bittersweet sigh for their lover’s inevitable departure. By the week’s end, gentle mornings with woollen sweaters and coffee dusted with cinnamon will be replaced by warm white string lights and cozy wintery nights. By New Year’s Day, the anticipation will begin for the day the glorious summer heat finally returns. Though autumn still clings to life, she is already dead in the people’s minds.

The man stood outside the diner staring, not believing what he saw. His wife was dead. He had murdered her! He went to her funeral. She was dead.

Yet, she was here in the diner one year later, bigger than life.

“Should I go in? What is she? What the hell am I talking about? She’s dead!”

After what seemed like hours, he made up his mind to enter.

Two other people were inside. He had his pistol; he could handle them.

He opened the door and stepped in.

Seeing her husband, the woman said, “Hello, Henry, welcome to my world.”

Dad was drunk. He didn’t notice me sliding my gingerbread pawn on the winding spaces past Gumdrop Mountain. His eyes instead were on pictures perched on the fireplace mantel. In one I’m ten, grimacing in a soccer uniform. In another I’m on stage at a dance recital, my arms raised overhead in a triumphant pose. His face reeked of disappointment.

Yeah, I cheated by moving my game piece out of turn, but I wanted to win. To make a point. Dad finally focused when I crossed the candy castle space. Waving my hand over the rainbow colors, I announced, “I’m gay.”