101 Words

You look out the plane’s window. You see sunny lush green St. Augustine, Florida, below. You de-plane, retrieve your suitcase, sign the rental contract, and ask the agent for help finding the Fountain of Youth.

He looks at you wide-eyed. “Lady, it’s a myth. It doesn’t exist.”

“But I read it in this Florida brochure. Here. See.”

“You didn’t read the fine print.”

“Can’t believe I’ve been duped.”

It’s so disappointing! What to do now? Flee to the beach. Here you’re floating on your back in the billowy blue waters of the Atlantic Ocean. No chance for restoring your youth here.

No-one saw her on the bridge, or witnessed the printed feathers on her dress appear to fly, as she moved through the air. No-one noticed the abandoned letters. Notes to her lover in jail.

They’d stood trial for her husband’s murder. Lives balanced in unforgiving hands. Bitter mouths labelled her to blame, but someone saw truth in those childlike eyes. Her lover wasn’t so lucky.

Later, he too would be pardoned. He’d send word of the miracle, but it wouldn’t reach her.

Sometimes our own hands are the most unforgiving.

Lifeless in the river, the feathers on her dress lay still.

The folder was labelled ‘Do not open.’

Pandora stared unblinkingly at the screen, eyebrows knitted into furrows. Skating across the monitor, her cursor hovered over the file. She double clicked the mouse. The room seemed to blink once then nothing. Her Skype began to ring. Opening it up, she noticed her name. Curious, she accepted the video call. There on the monitor was her room, except it wasn’t; another her was pressed close up against the screen. She looked agitated.

“What have you done?” the other her screamed. Pandora, panicked, closed the chat and double clicked Shut Down.

Everything went black.

Should she have made a cake?

She glances at her watch. Only two more hours and still so much to do. She polishes the table and applies a fresh table cloth, cleans the window sills, dusts the books on the shelf, and rearranges the flowers. He must appreciate her efforts! Toaster, water kettle, and microwave are spotless. Everything must be in perfect shape for him! She vacuums the carpet and swipes the tiles.

The doorbell rings. Her heart beats faster.

“Good morning!” he says. Quickly he checks the gas meter then nods goodbye.

Behind him the door closes with a sigh.

Loving him from a distance was safe. Also immature and not really love at all.

Still.

I had imagined how he’d propose. I’d invented charming inside jokes. I even knew what we’d name our first shelter cat.

And.

His daily admittance onto the C train helped perpetuate the fairy tale. I thought it must be fate when he pointed to my worn out copy of To Kill A Mockingbird; saying it was his favorite, too.

Now.

His blonde hair against my chevron pillowcase no longer has the same luster. His unsatisfying propinquity is strangling the breath from our concocted future.

Damn.

Carmen was shy, unassuming. She never raised her voice above a whisper. She was a worrier, by nature.

Once, she spent hours thinking about whether she’d actually be able to scream in a life-or-death situation. The uncertainty weighed heavily on her mind.

Victor was loud, vulgar. He had no morals, no conscience, and never denied rumors that he’d buried some bodies in the woods south of town. After months of pent-up frustration, he decided it was time to add one more to his collection.

By sheer coincidence, they came across one another in the woods.

The whole town heard the scream.