101 Words

A man out here who whined about the sweat-generating heat, and the bush flies in his eyes and up his nose, wouldn’t be a man, and Harry would never have that said of him.

Out here, a man who couldn’t fix a snapped axle on a mail truck in a dry creek bed wouldn’t be worth feeding.

As for thinking he could hear the roar of an oncoming train, well, a man would have to be a mental case to pay that any attention.

So Harry didn’t, until the flash flood carried him and the truck and the mail miles downstream.

I am summoned to the drawing room, along with the other suspects.

“I have cracked the case,” proclaims the doyen of deduction, gesturing with his briar pipe. “I know who shot Dr. Underwood, why the pentagram was scrawled on the library door, and exactly what motivated the murder.”

My mouth is dry, my palms clammy. I feel lightheaded. Exposure and arrest and gaol seem inevitable.

“However,” he continues, beginning to sway, “I must warn you that the perpetrator has access to a supply of cyanide, so we must all—”

He staggers, drops his pipe, and falls to the floor. Just in time.

She first appeared in my mirror when I was fifteen. Each visit she promised everlasting health and beauty.

Every year, as the lines in my face etched deeper, resisting got harder. But my vanity wasn’t that precious. When I broke my hip getting out of the shower, though, her promise eclipsed my resolve.

After I gave in, I felt strong again. Wrinkles faded to rumors of plastic surgery. I changed cities. Started over. But I slept longer each night, dreaming of mirrors.

Now I stare at her wearing my face, forever young and strong, from the other side of the mirror.

Today was the day. The day she never thought would come. She looked at her veiled face in the mirror, and her eyes began to fill with tears.

Just as she was about to get cold feet, the car arrived. She was scared, unsure if she could do it.

Staring upon the church, she knew it was filled with loved ones, flowers, and a new chapter. She walked down the aisle and stood looking down at her husband, thinking about her future. Or at least, what she thought would be her future. Then the funeral began.

“James Harry Tarnum was born…”

“You’re not going to do it. You’re scared!”

I puff out my chest. “I’m not!”

I look around at the crowd that has gathered. My classmates, mostly, but some older kids, too. The river flows fast beneath me, thundering over rocks and sand, and maybe, I think, over the bodies of kids just like me. Panic twists painfully in my chest.

The boys jostle each other, jeering at me. It’s not far down, and I’m a good swimmer.

From the corner of my eye, I see Mrs. Henderson approaching, fear flashing across her face. I take a deep breath and jump.

Even though it was midnight, the bustling city rushed toward dawn. Deadline pressures made it difficult to focus, and he needed fresh air. He opened the window, hoping the sight of stars might remind him of home.

He didn’t expect to see her. After all, who wouldn’t be surprised to see a girl standing on the ledge of a building, shrouded in shadows and inches away from falling?

The sight alarmed him. Until he spotted the black scythe in her hand, dripping with blood. Her dark eyes locked with his. Oddly, he felt a sense of relief. No more deadline pressure.

I sit at the table and remove my feet. I ponder whether to remove my lower leg but decide that would be too forward. My feet take their place next to the chair when doubt creeps in. Do I know this woman well enough to remove my limbs? Perhaps she didn’t notice. She’s younger than me, and might have different rules of etiquette.

Imagine my relief when she takes her seat and detaches her forearm. It crawls across the table and holds my hand. My feet creep across the carpet and settle next to hers. Our fingers dance around the plates.