101 Words

Taka would wake up. Sometimes with a sudden jerk that left him sitting upright gasping for breath, hands tugging at a damp tee shirt. Sometimes with a jolt big enough for him to find himself out of bed, momentarily clutching at air.

On the worst nights, he’d be several paces down the hallway before the panic began to abate, hands still tremoring as he’d pour a glass of water at the kitchen sink. Water.

“A few sips of water will help to reset you,” his counselor had told him.

Water. No—Taka had already had enough. The tsunami had taken everything.

Every night, Nick prepares to dazzle the bars with panache. He shaves, sprays Old Spice, dons a Polo shirt.

Then he pours White Russians, watches PBS.

He’s tried the bar scene. Twice. Both times, Nick was a ship navigating hostile seas, amongst discussions of Lady Gaga. Netflix. Topics for philistines.

But he still envisions connection. Imagines meeting a girl with cat-eye glasses, a Romantic. She also listens to Tchaikovsky, drops bon mots about modernity.

One night, Nick decides to find her. He takes a step outside. But he shudders at thoughts of fumbled conversation, the futility of slaying cultural windmills.

January had been unusually warm this year, but today, the woods stood frozen. Wintergreen berries bowed their heads. Gnarled branches groaned above. Grace ignored their complaints, her eyes watering but fixed on the blanketed path that climbed ahead.

The world was muted but for Grace’s raspy breathing and measured steps, neither of which hushed her mind. Last night’s fortune had read, No one of intelligence resents the inevitable. Maybe not, Grace mused, but how many lifetimes do we waste fighting it?

With that, a splintering echoed from the beech-maple canopy. Grace stood still and—finally—resisted the urge to look up.

It was a freak accident they said. She wouldn’t have known what hit her they said. There was likely no pain they said.

It was obvious she was the better twin. The more successful, the brighter, and the nicer half of our identical pair. Not only a daughter and sister, but wife, mother, and friend. My champion. Now I’m alone surrounded by watery eyes lodged in silent faces. They track me around the room, barely concealing an unbidden thought. If only.

I stay silent, fearing my truth because I’m heartbroken, angry, and shocked but mostly I’m so relieved it wasn’t me.

A man’s tie is an innocuous object. It signifies business, prowess, success. It threatens no one and demands nothing.

But context is key.

When John found one balled behind the headboard of their bed he was surprised. He did not recognise the pattern, the colour, the style.

It grew in significance as he carried it in his pocket day after day. He twisted it around his fist as Clare checked her phone during dinner or popped to the shop before bed.

By the time he wrapped it around her neck as she slept, its power had grown beyond all possible reason.