101 Words

“Michelle, you’re pitching next inning,” said the softball coach. “Go warm up.”

Michelle put on her glove and stepped behind the dugout.

“I can catch for her,” offered Lisa’s dad.

“Thanks, Jerry,” said Coach. “Gloves are by the bench.”

“Nah, won’t need one. She’s just fifth grade.” Jerry hitched up his belt. He strode behind the dugout and squatted about 35 feet from the little pitcher. The ball was bigger than her hand.

Two pitches later, Jerry reached for a glove with crimson hands. He resumed his squat.

Michelle struck out the side. Jerry held two ice-cold sodas while he watched.

The robotic voice pierces the air. “One minute to collision.”

I tremble. One minute to death.

“40 seconds.”

I yank at my cell’s metal bars.

“30 seconds.”

I scream for help—a guard, another inmate, anyone. There’s only one voice.

“20 seconds.”

It’s hopeless. I slump on the floor, devastated. This is where I die.

“10 seconds.”

I look out the window, see the moon float towards the earth. Beautiful. “Okay,” I whisper, and smile.

The oxygen mask comes off my face, that hollow voice ringing through the air. “Inner peace found. Simulation over.”

I leave the lab a changed man.

We ripped the doors off my rusty mustang, Joni and I. They came off easy, like moth wings. Sparks scattered across steel when we carved a hole in the roof, but the fire’s gone now that we’re rocketing faster than light itself. As we fly over asphalt mirages, the roaring wind rips away Joni’s manic screams. Speeding in a dilapidated car, we run from belts and locked doors and accusations of sin.

When the time is right, I take the exit to nowhere. The toll fee is one sharp turn and your whole future. We pay the price gladly, foolishly unafraid.

She was sensible, solid, everyone in the village said so. No oil painting, mind, but a good wife, mother, knew how to budget, housekeep. They weren’t saying that about me though. Divorcee, couldn’t be trusted, wouldn’t be trusted. Beverley, my new neighbour, told me this on day one. And so our friendship began.

One Christmas, listening to the radio, callers estranged from families, she said, “They’re the lucky ones.”

When Beverley stepped out of her life and disappeared I was less surprised than others.

Later, a solicitor’s letter informed me Beverley had died alone, penniless.

It’s what she would have wanted.

The sidewalk had a freshly chalked hopscotch, a little wonky but playable. Darlene couldn’t resist and, at age 87, she went from 1 to Safe and from Safe to Sorry in less than a minute.

“Really?” the young doctor asked. “Hopscotch?”

“Wasn’t kickboxing, doc,” Darlene replied, thinking how a well-placed boot…

“Positive thoughts only,” she stopped herself, a rule she tried faithfully to follow.

For hadn’t she been “positive” in believing she could bend down to retrieve her marker without falling? Her wedding ring. She could have left it there, twenty years a widow. But it was her source of equilibrium.

“Surprise!” everyone chorused. “Happy Birthday!”

Surprised, he made his rounds, greeting his guests. Everyone was having a good time.

She watched him mingle for a few minutes. She then cast a brief glance towards his cake in the kitchen. She was sure no one had seen her in there earlier.

Soon, he’d take a bite and, seconds later, he’d be sprawled out on the floor, gasping his last breaths.

Yes, people would try to help, but it would be too late. She’d chosen a fast-acting poison.

That’d be his surprise for leaving her to reconcile with his wife. Happy 50th Birthday.