101 Words

Twenty years on the crime beat, Frank always wanted to witness this. Now, he had to be here.

He watched the inmate gasp as the lethal drugs penetrated his arm.

“Time of death,” the warden announced, “6:09.”

Frank grimaced.

~

Leaving the prison, Frank was approached by fellow reporter Seth, who’d also witnessed the execution.

“Got any comment?” Seth asked.

“No,” Frank growled, resolute.

“Help me out, Frank. How do you feel?”

Frank paused.

“The punk killed my wife for $43. How do you think I feel?”

He walked away.

Tomorrow, Frank would quit the crime beat. It wasn’t the same anymore.

3:00 a.m.

“Get me out of here!” Lorelei whispers the plea, grips the phone with slippery palms, and keeps a lookout for her captors.

On the other end, Lorelei hears his sigh, heavy with sleep.

She raised her voice, risking discovery. “I’m not exaggerating.” She pronounces each word so as not to be mistaken.

“Lorelei.” She knows this voice. “Camp isn’t prison and a week without a cell phone won’t kill you. Now return the counselor’s phone, and go back to your bunk. It’s only the first night!”

Lorelei’s father disconnects.

Worse. She forgot where she found the phone.

I stride up the mountain. I slip on the ice, but regain control. My father’s words invade my consciousness. You’re weak. Give up.

I take a step: slow, definitive. This is my new home. The ice won’t win.

I slip again. Regain control.

As dusk beckons, I am bathed in pink, gold, and purple. Butter-colored lights encourage me, shining from homes where hugs, laughter, and dreams abound. Keep going.

I release my inhibitions. Continue on through the cold.

I crest the peak. My cabin, my rustic refuge, comes into view, and Father’s words dissolve into the mountains’ wide silence.

I’m home.

Pluck, pluck, pluck. I pick the petals off a sunflower from my school’s garden. Pluck, she loves me. Pluck, she doesn’t love me. Pluck, pluck, pluck. My head lifts to watch the blue above. Each drifting cloud sort of looks like owls, or perhaps doves.

Pluck, she loves me. Pluck, she doesn’t love me. The school bell rings with a bee-like buzz and sting. I’ve hidden in the garden all day, and not a soul has noticed. Classes are over and it’s time to go home. I finally look down, and all the petals are gone, and so is the girl.

There are things that tell you what it’s like to meet your child for the first time. How the sound of their crying, the feel of their skin will bond you.

There is nothing that tells you what it’s like to meet a parent for the first time. How the coffee will grow cold while you wait.

There is nothing that will tell you how to navigate wanting both an apology and to be loved by someone you do not know.

There is nothing that will tell you how to grieve when you pay the bill and walk out the door.

“Hey, Sharon! What do you have there?”

I cringed, clutching the paper bag to my chest. “Oh. Hi, Janet. It’s…just something to cheer me up.” I avoided her eyes.

“A little treat? Well, you are newly single. You deserve to enjoy yourself with—whatever that is,” she said, giving me a wink.

I certainly did. I couldn’t wait to get out of my work clothes and pour a glass of wine.

I thought of Janet later when I opened my bag of delights. Imagine if she really knew.

A treat indeed—brand new coloring books just waiting for my pencils.