101 Words

I asked Harold to scatter my ashes off the cliffs in Dover, but he’s gone and put me in a vase on the mantelpiece instead—the stupid bugger. I know why he’s done it; he can’t stand the thought of me dancing the Jitterbug up there in the stars with Joe.

He always hated it when Joe gave me all that attention. Of course, he couldn’t say so—not in those days—not even when Joe got killed. I reckon the only reason he married me was because it was the closest he could get to holding Joe in his arms.

I sat in my car. I was supposed to be dead. At least, my wrist said so. October 16, 2024. I looked at my phone. October 17, 2024. I drove to my sister’s house. She answered after the second knock. “Sorry, I’m not interested in solar panels or finding Jesus or whatever you’re trying to sell.”

“Very funny, Cassie. I’m supposed to be dead. Look. My wrist says yesterday.”

Cassie took a step back. “Do I know you?”

“I’m your twin brother.”

“I believe you’re mistaken. I don’t have a brother.”

“Cassie!”

She backed up another step and closed the door.

Tessa wove in and out of traffic. If Dave beat her home he’d be suspicious, and she didn’t have enough makeup to cover what happened when Dave got suspicious.

Shoot! She shouldn’t have gone to see Toby. She’d felt so comfortable with him. Tessa glanced at the clock on the dash, cussed, and honked the horn as she sped past cars in the emergency lane.

Tessa’s car skidded to a halt in the driveway. She rushed to the door and dug in her purse for the house keys, but the door opened before she could find them.

Suspicious Dave was waiting.

“Interested?” He shoved the mobile at her. “Top of the range. Cost a bomb in the shops.”

“I know, I’ve seen them. Why offer it to me?”

“You have money.”

“Where did you get it?”

“Tricky question.” Said with a gappy smile. “Things come my way. I sell them on.”

“Stolen then. Still, I am tempted.”

“Call it fifty.”

“Let me see.” Snatching it from him she could see the mark where Tom had dropped it. Her instincts were right.

“The money?” A grubby hand reached out.

“In your dreams, idiot!”

“We had a deal.”

“And you had my son’s phone.”

I stop only a fleeting moment. Short, sharp breaths fill my lungs and I try to catch them. My jittery eyes dart around, continually searching for my pursuers. I spot one; his hungry gaze bearing down on me. Anxious arms stretch out as he sprints in my direction. My feet kick up dust as I zag away from his clumsy attempt to capture me.

This chase seems eternal but deep inside I know I’ll lose. But I can still hope. There is salvation. The myth we all know—the president will pardon one of us for Thanksgiving. It could be me.

The kids sat in the bus in silence. Puzzled glances were exchanged, while the unhappy Museum Director stood at the front, flanked by our teachers.

“These tesserae have lain undisturbed for over 1,700 years. Someone has taken a souvenir from the ‘Gladiators’ mosaic and I want it back.”

Mr. Jones, our history teacher, surveyed the kids’ faces for any signs of guilt. Long seconds ticked by, but there were no clues…

Fifty-five years on, I turn the little piece of agate over in my hand, full of regret.

I put it back in the plastic 1960’s wallet where I’d rediscovered it.