101 Words

I poised on a bluff overlooking the great white waters of our home bay. I stood tall in my simple breechcloth and moccasins.

Into the inlet, three large canoes.

A strange group of men disembarked. They did not look like my Tribe. Pale as the undersurface of the slimy frog and with long facial hair.

My people attacked and the Tribe slaughtered most invaders. I longed to participate.

Only a few men escaped. One man yelled out something in a strange tongue. Our medicine man, Wise Owl, recognized what the words meant.

“We Vikings will never return to these savage lands.”

Grandpa sat smoking his pipe on the veranda. He hadn’t spoken in the two months since Grandma’s death. Every day, he would sit there staring out into the garden as if waiting for her to return.

One afternoon, I followed his gaze to the patch of raspberry bushes just beyond the olive trees. They looked ready for picking, so I decided to collect them and make jam—just the way Grandma had shown me.

Once finished, I placed it on a scone and gave it to him. As I walked away, he called, “Thank you, Josie, it tastes just like Grandma’s.”

I suffered a cutemare last night, which explains why my sheets were soaked in the morning.

It started normally with me snacking on a timid fellow who whined more than he bled except I suddenly lost my fangs. I was wondering where my talons went when a familiar scent triggered a tidal wave of nostalgia.

Candy! I materialized in a store with pastel pink walls and white porcelain countertops; stocked with billowy cotton candy, swirly-striped lollipops, chocolates, and gooey caramel crunchbars. Flavors I now only taste on children’s tongues.

Sharon shook me awake. “You scared me, Shawn. You wouldn’t stop laughing.”

“What do you do for fun?”

It was a simple question, but Becky couldn’t answer it. Five years ago, she would have been able to. Now, in a cloud of motherhood, she didn’t know who she was anymore. There was no time. There was no space for just her.

“Yoga,” she lied. Becky hadn’t unrolled the yoga mat since before Ava was born. Her body was stiff and tight.

She took another sip of her whiskey sour and slowly rubbed her freshly shaved legs together. Becky massaged the deep indention on her ring finger and hoped he wouldn’t look too closely.

It’s dark, and I’m afraid. My bare feet are sticking out from under the blanket. I don’t have the strength to bend over and arrange it. I’ve been locked up and lying in this bed for a whole week.

He comes again and stays for a few moments observing everything. He grabs the blanket and he fixes it: my feet are less cold now.

Again that look that terrifies me. I don’t know what to tell him.

But it is he who speaks to me.

“Julie, my dear, do you need something?”

I’m still speechless. If only I remembered his name…

I watch my kids play baseball. Cole, the little one, is seven, and Cody is ten. Our garden shimmers under the spring sun. The wind breezes past the blooming lilies.

Cody pitches the ball. But Cole is daydreaming and the ball flies over his head. I instinctively reach out to catch it and throw it back.

Both boys freeze. Cole points to the sky, “I told you dad is watching over us.” They run to tell their mother, “Daddy threw the ball to Cody.” She gathers them close to her chest.

Later she calls my mother. “The boys have wonderful imaginations.”