101 Words

He sat down in the bedroom, wearing a white dress shirt that bore a faded red spot at the collar. “My dear,” he grinned, “everything is fine.”

I clenched my teeth. Long nights away, gifts from ‘work,’ kisses that felt colder than winter, colder than death. And he didn’t even try to make a good lie. I glanced at the mirror. Did my forties make me so unappealing to my husband? “Don’t you trust me?” he asked.

“Yes, dear,” I answered, smiling. “I do.” My mom said women fight the biggest battles. My naïve husband had just declared war with me.

I felt helpless sitting by my husband’s bedside when he went into hospice, because I couldn’t do a damn thing but pay attention to his pain and listen for his last push of air.

Weeks after his death, I began to think about my joy of painting and was ready to be creative again; although standing next to every color of paint imaginable, I just stare at a blank canvas on the easel.

In an emotional outburst, I weep and slobber over the brushes. I can’t reason why the chill of death keeps me from drawing, no matter how I try.

I was seven years old when Nixon resigned. Dad said, “The President looks sad, so we have to be nice to him.”

I used to imagine Nixon slouching past my house in Bellevue, Washington. I watched for him, but he never came.

A couple months later, I counted up my trick-or-treat candy. My mother called to my father: “Gene! Richard Nixon is at the door.”

My wish had come true. I ran down the hall to see the former President, but it wasn’t Nixon. It was a tall kid in a blue suit, a Nixon mask, and an open trick-or-treat bag.

Cautiously, the producer approaches Flame on the film set with a troubled look on his face. Since his last encounter, he learns to maintain a respectful distance.

Flame studies him through a slit in her eye, displays a toothy grin and waits expectantly.

“Too many of our sets have recently disappeared in a puff of smoke.

“And due to budgetary restrictions, I have to replace you with a computer-generated image of a dragon.”

Flame encircles the producer’s body with her red scaly tail and carries him off. “Let us talk about it,” he shouts as his voice fades into the distance.

The rain was drizzling lightly as Evan lay in bed with his wife, Julie. He squeezed her small feeble hand, listening to the wind. He was thankful to be with Julie and owed his life to her.

During his early twenties, Evan had been a compulsive gambler and within six months had racked up substantial debt. Everything in his world began to collapse until he met Julie.

She helped save his life then, and now he wanted to be with her forever. Evan stroked her pallid cheek and said, “I’ll be with you soon, my darling,” and then swallowed more arsenic.

I stood on the edge; arms spread out. The foam pit below seemed safe. It’s a dizzying height. Acrophobia wasn’t what gripped my chest and lungs. My traitorous brain lengthened the jump’s height and shrunk the size of the pit. Would I survive? “Do a jump like in the video game?” friends said.

As my stiff muscles chained me down, the gymnast supervisor placed his hand on me and said, “Jump.”

I did, jumping forward with my arms spread out like the eagle and fell into the soft blocky sea. “Whoa,” escaping my mouth. The flush of comfort sighed with me.