101 Words

101 Word Short Stories

Weeping Willow

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Sheltered beneath the old weeping willow again, memories hidden beneath its shady umbrella are unearthed.

Grandpa’s tall tales of being a pilot, lion tamer, spy. Apron-clad Grammy shouting me in for a bath or delicious home-baked treat. Fighting my brother, recklessly swinging from those rope-like branches.

The day we tied sunshine yellow ribbons around its trunk to commemorate their passing.

Their special place long before ours.

Tracing over their initials forever crudely etched on the trunk, I retrieve Grandpa’s old penknife from my pocket. I scratch my own initials below, wishing one day I might have someone to share this with.

— Angie Dent

Store Run

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Ding.

I check my phone. My parents’ Costco list.

Store run time. Gear up, can’t forget my mask.

My four-year-old waylays me.

“Baba, I wanna go shopping!”

“You can’t, son.”

“Why?”

“Coronavirus. Sorry.”

The roads are almost empty, but the parking lot isn’t.

A sign out front lists all the goods out-of-stock. TP out? You bet.

Like a prehistoric hunter, I risk my life to keep the tribe fed. My frustration mounting, I stalk the aisles. I concede the hunt with only half the list fulfilled. Still, my masked parents are grateful.

Another two weeks until I risk the hunt again.

— Dan Rice

Breaths

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I lean forward and hold his head in my hands. I slowly start to sing his favourite hymn:

“I am a child of God,
And he has sent me here,
Has given me an earthly home
With parents kind and dear.”

Tears trickle down his face.

“It’s ok, Dad. You are safe. Don’t be frightened,” I whisper.

His breathing is now rattled, Cheyne–Stokes irregular.

The seconds between his breaths become longer, each one more earnest than the last.

I cuddle him. I kiss him on the forehead and whisper, “I love you.”

And then it all stops.

He has gone.

— P J Liddy

Rise and Shine

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The smell of fresh coffee gave me strength to roll over. Worried, I glanced at the cluttered nightstand. Had I remembered my 5 a.m. pill? Hidden the doctor’s report in my underwear drawer? Yes, and yes.

Everything hurt from my toe joints to my hair. I rocked back and forth until I could sit up. My spine crackled and crunched. I slid swollen feet into my fuzzy slippers. I could hear the tappity-tap of little feet coming down the hall.

“Morning, Nana. How are you?” my granddaughter sang in her sweet voice.

“Fine, Poppet.” And for a moment I was.

— Jacky Lang

Vlach Magic Dance

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High noon. In the woods, under the spring Sun obscured by clouds, a coven of women danced in a trance. They screamed and moaned, exposed their pendulous undulating breasts to the eyes of their arcane Gods.

Yet, hidden in the bushes, on a pile of stripped robes, lay an unwelcome guest with a smartphone in his hand. He recorded their invocations and captured images of their grotesque choreography just as a lepidopterist captures images of butterflies. His eyes were wide open, his ears rang with their sacred chant.

In his memory we reassembled the footage into a documentary of the events.

— Ivan Ristic

Band Aid

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Bud’s been a wreck since the band broke up. He sleeps all day and glares at his guitar all night. When I’m at work, he forgets to eat. He doesn’t forget to check his texts, though. He’s waiting for an apology from Denny. One that’ll never come. I try to distract Bud from his unmitigated misery by putting on the baseball game right after dinner, talking to him about hitters’ counts and launch angles, but it’s no use. He can’t focus on anything except the band. So I do what’s best for everybody: I call Denny and tell him Bud’s sorry.

— Lori Cramer