101 Words

It took four shots of bottom-shelf Tequila to give Stella the courage to skinny-dip in her grandmother’s pool. Moonlight illuminated the water. On her third lap, she met a snake.

“One wish if you rescue me,” it hissed.

Stella considered the proposition. “I wish you were a boy.”

“If you kiss me, I will become only the most handsome creature imaginable.”

Stella kissed the snake, but nothing happened. “You lied. You can figure your own way out of the pool.”

“Wait a minute,” it said as she swam toward the ladder.

Fifty-nine seconds later, two snakes swam under the full moon.

Tom paced around the cold interrogation room. He wasn’t there to answer questions.

He was dead if they caught him. He knew too much. He had seen the tattoo and could identify it.

What he had witnessed gave him nightmares. He didn’t know you could do that to a man.

Now, he knew he was in safe hands in a room with no red light. Only Chief Inspector Hill knew he was here.

He heard heavy footsteps approaching the door. He was relieved to see Hill enter the room.

Hill’s pristine white sleeve rolled up to reveal a tattoo he recognized.

Rudy left Reno with a full tank of gas, an empty heart, and the band America blasting over the 8-track. Any thoughts of Rudy taking the breakup like a man failed miserably as he blubbered and moaned all the way to Lone Pine. He stopped for a burger and used the pay phone attached to the wood-paneled wall near the bathrooms to give her a call—just to make sure this was really what she wanted. She told him it was all for the best and that he should continue to L.A. He protested. “But I’m already sick of America.”

Viktor was going to die.

Tomorrow, his story ended.

Tomorrow, he was going to face whatever truth lies in wait for the dead.

But today, he was going to fight. Today, he was going to make sure he met death screaming, filled with righteous glory and honor, not in silence.

He looked to his left and to his right at his brothers in arms and felt the energy, felt their restlessness, and thrived.

He cried out, a warrior’s cry, the cry of a man challenging death. He would not bow to any lords, let alone death.

Death was coming…but not today.

“We have to cover three points today, sir. The first is to review the curated footage of key citizens.”

“OK.”

“Then you need to be found standing in a queue. Maybe in the state-cafeteria at lunch time?”

“Fine.”

“The third point is to be seen paying by yourself, sir.”

“You know I don’t carry a wallet.”

“I am aware, sir. But we must post those photos today. To counter yesterday’s news.”

“Hmmm.”

“So maybe you can stop suddenly, ditch the convoy, and buy something from a roadside vendor.”

“Now you are pushing me.”

“No option, sir. They are watching us, too.”

Sarah lifted her brewing pan from the heat, and caramel-flavoured steam filled the kitchen. Pale malt and oat-husks mingled in the mash, mixed with her secret ingredient—toast. Sarah was a thrifty housekeeper: she wasted nothing, grew her own ingredients, fermented, and preserved. She set the wort to strain, prepared the water for sparging, rifled the pantry for dried hops and yeast.

Barnaby, fresh from dozing in the rocking-chair, sneered at her ale. Bitter words poured from his well-fed mouth.

Re-purposing the butcher knives, Sarah won back the calm in her kitchen. Autumn’s hops—richly nourished—had a distinctive, delicious aroma.