101 Words

Straggling mourners remained, resisting dusk’s intrusions, unprepared to embark on the next inevitable steps of their grief.

The dirt had already fallen on the deceased. One person nervously tamped the dirt down a bit, evening it out with the edge of his wing-tipped shoe.

He said, “I still cannot believe he is gone.”

His wife grabbed him by the arm, urging him to leave the spot. “We can visit him tomorrow. Let’s get inside, soon the mosquitoes will be out.”

“You’re right,” he said. “I am so glad that we did not flush him down the toilet like those other goldfishes.”

A cacophonous, cavernous creaking preceded the opening of the devil’s lair. Chiselled cheeks crinkled crudely into a smirk. A large, callused hand reached upwards to ruffle resplendent locks dark as the ebon waters of the Styx.

“It’s good to see you again, Carol.”

Every honeyed syllable sinuously slithered past full lips. Teeth gritted, brows furrowed, face flushed, I glowered. Contrasting pools of midnight obsidian and pellucid cerulean—crinkled with mirth—stared back.

“Just one more time.”

Even to my own ears, it sounded plaintive. I strode briskly past him, quickly divesting myself of clothing. The door closed with an echoing finality.

When kisses replaced money, it’s safe to say there were winners and losers.

Our anniversary, and Beth’s eyes sparkled like the emeralds in the necklace I bought her.

“Looks expensive,” she gushed, fumbling impatiently with the clip.

“Uh, huh. From the Italian jewelers.”

She paused, necklace halfway to her neck. “Run by Lucia, that fiery red-head?”

I nodded.

“How expensive?” she demanded.

I shrugged. “Five hundred—”

“Five…!?” She slapped my face hard.

“But I’m paying for it in installments.”

She slapped me harder and walked out. Single and in debt, I revisited the jewelers.

Lucia was out. Alfredo redeemed my deposit.

His Rolex, Maserati, new blonde. The phones—work, private, classified…boring.

His buddy: “Change’ll do you good. Hand the gamekeeper cash. This is for conservation. Fund their preserve, save endangered animals. Win-win, and legal.”

They’d found the biggest lion, lured it off the conservancy grounds with meat. Gorgeous. Adrenaline.

Across the border, he shot. Wounded, it crawled. Finished off by a heavy caliber bow. All those workouts had paid off. The souvenir—a severed head.

He showed his girl the selfie. Legs akimbo, grinning. The maned lion, cub-like, eyes shut.

She wept, “That’s Alfie. He was my father’s tagged research lion.”

They looked like lovers, sitting close together on a wooden bus stop bench near their red brick apartment house. Paul’s gnarled hand squeezed Jean’s thigh affectionately. His wheelchair sat nearby.

Gina smiled while walking by them. “Come here,” Jean cried out to Gina, her voice gravelly from six decades of smoking. “I can’t get him to move his hand.”

“Tell him again,” Gina instructed.

She did.

“Don’t you like it?” 97-year-old Paul asked.

“No.”

Paul put both hands in his lap.

Days later, Paul groped another woman. Today, Paul brought home a sex worker. Police were in his apartment for hours.

My men tossed me out of the plane at thirty thousand feet—without a parachute. I have one hundred and seventy eight seconds to live.

I find myself praying for aliens to exist.

The wind turns the world surreal; I envision flying saucers coming at me in blurry white lines. I was going to turn my men over to the MPs for shooting an immigrant seeking asylum as they conducted border security.

Now, I seek asylum from little green men.

Seventy stories up and falling. Wait—there they are.

Their hands held up—brown, black, red, yellow, white—to catch me.