101 Words

The following morning, he awoke on a sandy beach. The sun was shining and his head ached. A crowd of people had gathered around. As he heaved himself up, they bowed before him. Then an elderly member of the crowd spoke.

“O, messenger of the gods,” he said, “welcome to our island. We are honored by your presence.”

“Messenger?”

“Yes, O holy one,” replied the elder. “Long have we awaited your arrival.”

This puzzled him. All he could remember about the Stag Night was the endless beer, the music, and the stupid Cupid costume which he still appeared to be wearing.

Mom pulled Jacklyn to the kindergarten room.

“Welcome to open house!” said Mrs. Marsh, smiling. “Hi, Betty. Jacklyn is the last of the family, eh?”

“Yes, number four,” said Mom. “Jojo, this is Mrs. Marsh.”

The teacher squatted down. “I’m so glad you’re coming into kindergarten. Do you want to be called Jacklyn or Jojo?”

“Jacklyn.”

“Oh, no,” insisted Mom. “Jojo is so much cuter. We’ve called her that ever since her brother Darren pronounced it that way when she was born.”

“Jojo it is, then,” laughed Mrs. Marsh.

“Come along, Jojo,” said Mom.

“My name is Jacklyn,” she said softly.

After caking layers of foundation to cover her acne scars and under-eye darkness, Victoria painted her signature charcoal cat-eye swooshes. She weaved blonde extensions into heavily chemicalized hair and snapped a half dozen faux-lit selfies for future posts. (How better to encourage beauty suppliers to send complimentary samples?)

While live-streaming her ride, Victoria masked the background so that her half million followers wouldn’t notice her limo was an older model Uber. She described the reservation-only restaurant where her exclusive dinner would include only the most prominent members of society.

Upon arrival, the hostess asked, “How many in your party?”

“Just one.”

We finished hiking at dusk. But where was my future sister-in-law, Chloe? Fourteen women huddled, eager to start partying at Tootsie’s. I squinted back toward the trailhead. The woods were darkening. Few cars remained in the lot. I started to the park office when I heard her singsong voice, “Ladies! Look what I found!”

Chloe sashayed up, a scruffy backpacker on her arm. “Don’t tell your brother,” she winked at me. The two left in Chloe’s car.

My heart was thumping. Why did the guy look so familiar? I opened my phone and Googled ‘fugitive Franklin County.’ There. Wanted by FBI.

“Old people live here, I bet,” Clay whispered as he and Ajay maneuvered through the dark house, wearing black from head to toe.

“How do you know?” Ajay jammed a MacBook into his backpack.

“Old people have aches and pains, and there are plenty of recliners and heating pads here,” Clay chuckled.

“That’s genius, man! So, if anyone’s home, we’ll handle them!”

That’s when two sets of Taser barbed darts hit both of their rumps as laughter came from behind the sofa.

“What dumb asses,” the man said, watching the thieves convulse on the floor.

“Numb asses now!” his wife giggled.

You wielded your blade and lanced my trust until, pus-like, it spilled from me in nausea and bile, and mucous-tinged tears, until my husk was hollowed and bare.

For the taste of dewy lips and buttermilk skin, you bartered with memories, fortified from twenty years of echoing laughter and the gap-toothed smiles of our children. Once cherished, they now seep, tainted, into muddy pools of disgust.

Your gamble lost and yet, it is me paying for her bitten silk pillows and your sweaty release with glares from our rudderless offspring; and you rest contentedly, slick and spent from your carnal delight.

The only gift I ever received from my dad was a scratched-up hammer. He’d just moved me into my first apartment after college graduation. Dad left school after eighth grade, so he wore paternal pride as we loaded and unloaded boxes. I thanked him. He kissed me and said, “Everybody needs a hammer.” After he’d gone, I put it in a drawer.

Today, I hung my diploma. I tap-tap-tapped, but the nail jerked sideways. Damn. Second attempt hit the wall. Fuck. Third attempt, I channeled my dad. I pictured his calloused hands, curled tight, determined. That nail didn’t stand a chance.