101 Words

She’d thought it was a myth—her mother’s quaint obsession with the fae.

Until they’d stolen her boy.

She gave chase into their realm, tearing through the gnarled forest of twisted trees.

“Mama?”

Relief surged when she saw him by the moss-covered fountain.

“Mama, I’m thirsty.” Pleading eyes squeezed her heart as he held out the flask. She filled it and passed it back.

He shook his head. “You first.”

Trembling hands raised it to her lips.

The illusion faded—her son’s image replaced by a faery baring jagged teeth.

Don’t drink the water, a memory whispered. Drink and you’re theirs.

The voice arrives through a cotton-filled funnel, “Please fasten your seat belts.” Briefly, I fear that I’m suffering from some sort of sonic engorgement. Every noise blares brighter than neon in my eardrums.

It started an hour ago, when I walked out of the house in the pouring rain with neither an umbrella nor a plan. The gentle muscles that shifted alongside my finger bones, turning the key into the ignition, didn’t feel like my own. Neither did the resolute voice asking for a ticket to somewhere, anywhere.

I’ve made a trade. My extremities aren’t mine anymore. Only my heart is.

When a tree falls, forest creatures assemble in silent vigil—an ancient act of homage and respect to their dying comrade who provided shelter and sustenance for generation after generation of their kin.

They wait and observe for days or weeks until the tree relinquishes its grip on the soil and tumbles into decaying leaves, and merge with the forest floor.

Should people approach, however, the mourners flee and hide, having guarded their ceremony from human eyes for countless millennia.

The sound that each tree makes or fails to make as it hits the ground remains the greatest secret of all.

Her eyes grew wide and glassy as she stared at the ceiling, clutching her bear.

Seven years old. Terrified and alone. Her parents, cousins, friends…Where had they gone? She didn’t know.

Just days ago, her family was gathered around a table, celebrating Hanukkah. She remembered asking why the other children at school didn’t celebrate with her. Now she huddled with hundreds of others in molding showers surrounded by the sounds of shouting soldiers, of metal scraping against metal, the soft hiss of gas moments before the showers came to life and a little teddy bear tumbled silently to the floor.

Breakfast, then airborne. My wings slash into the crisp air, catch a draft, glide me over rows of buildings whose windows glisten in shards of morning sunlight. I scan the street below for a subject.

Blue wool suit, briefcase.

I’m leagues beyond my colleagues—those mindless cretins who randomly splatter windshields, statues, park benches. I’m an artist, an aerial Jackson Pollock, my masterpieces carefully conceived, brilliantly executed.

I dip my wings and plummet, unloading just as I pull out of the dive. The man below curses, takes out a tissue, wipes at the white spot on his suit.

Ars gratia artis.

The remaining buildings in the bombed-out village shimmer behind undulating waves of heat rising off the deserted street. Cut off from outside aid, Fariba and her son, Bijan, pedal their bikes carefully through the rubble, baskets full of overpriced supplies from the black market.

Eyeing the sky, listening for drones, she says, “Let’s get inside.”

Back at the hospital, the power is on, for now; the water is clean, for now; the generator is old; the fuel is scarce—bombs aren’t the only things that kill out here in the desert.

Inside, the AC screams, almost as loudly as the children.

He slapped me, HARD! My head jerked right. I gasped in fresh air. I hadn’t been aware of the gas leak. The need to lie down and sleep was overpowering, so I did. He slapped once more. I opened my eyes and saw a blurry, unfamiliar, bearded face framed by the bluest sky I have ever been in love with. The warm green grass under my body felt like heaven. Thank God I was on top and not under it. I may have been if this man intent on burglarizing my home had not dragged me out.

My stuff is yours.