101 Words

The stone looked ancient. The embedded sword did not. Arthur glanced around to see if anyone was watching. He needed to return to the tournament soon else Sir Kay would box his ears.

Without bothering to read the STONE’S inscription, Arthur gripped the sword, and yanked with all his strength. It popped free and he fell on his ass.

“Excuse me, but that’s my sword.”

Merlin had taught him how to understand the trees, birds, and fish. Never had he mentioned speaking rocks.

“Forgive me.” He replaced the sword and scrambled to find another. Kay’s boxing bruised his ears for weeks.

The rain didn’t help. Five hours trudging the highway. A million mosquito bites. Two hornet stings. Fifty-two cans. Two dollars, sixty cents. Some days aren’t worth it. I shouldered the black plastic bag and squished into town on sodden sneakers.

The machines were available. The crushing stops. Push here for receipt. A one-dollar burger today. McCafe in the morning. I won’t starve.

“Hey, Eddie.” Old Jake, lopsided on the broken crutch. Too-large hoodie dripping puddles. Small bag. Twenty-one cans—dollar-five.

“Let me help you, Jake.”

Crush cans. Slip him my receipt. Head out for burger with nickel tip. No coffee tomorrow.

She forcefully scratched the skin on her wrist, then ripped off a couple of her nails and dropped them. She spat and rubbed her saliva around the seat, before biting herself hard enough to draw a little blood, which she smeared around as best she could.

Before her hands were restrained, she was able to pull out a few hairs from the nape of her neck.

She prayed that everything she’d done would be enough. Even if she didn’t make out the back of this car alive, parts of her would remain here. He would not get away with it.

The alien first appeared on the night of her tenth birthday.

No one believed her. Not her friends. Not her teachers. Certainly not her family. Her cries for help were dismissed as the product of an over-active imagination.

Until the night that she stabbed the creature with her brother’s penknife. A moment’s work—just a quick thrust—and the alien ran squealing from her room, clutching its neck.

The next morning she found blood on the bed sheets. Jubilant, she tried to discuss it with her father over breakfast, but he was distant and withdrawn, rubbing the scab on his throat.

Gary stared blankly across the polished oak conference table. He coughed, senses overwhelmed by cigar smoke; the gray wisps obscured the protruding bellies of stone faced studio executives. Could these powerful men smell fear, like bees or dogs do? Could they hear the crinkle of the divorce attorney’s letter in his pocket? Taste the sweat soaking into his coffee-stained button-up or the mothball scent of his dollar-store blazer? He rose to his feet, loosened his tattered faux silk tie, straightened the pages of his dog-eared script, and cleared his throat.

“Ain’t no rules say a dog can’t play basketball.”

Don had the misfortune to park his bicycle in a high-prank neighborhood. Returning from an errand, he found the bike still locked, but someone had replaced his bell with a maroon clown’s nose that honked when squeezed. Would the vandal come back to check out his work? Don spotted a nearby bench for a stakeout. Soon an orange-wigged old man on a tricycle rode by and registered Don’s scowl. Whipping out a purple Sharpie, he scrawled something on Don’s bike saddle and pedaled away before Don could grab him. Don glanced at the saddle and read just two words: ‘LIGHTEN UP.’