101 Words

Waking up, I don’t recognise the room or its contents. The only sound is the mains hum from various electrical appliances. The clock on the wall shows 3:23 and nothing more.

I quietly open the door and glance into an unfamiliar hall; all other doors are closed. There are no windows to check if it’s day or night.

Which door leads to the toilet? I’m going to need it soon, but I’m reluctant to break the near-silence of the house by flushing the cistern, even if I find it.

I notice my coat, but nothing triggers my memory. I’m lost…again.

I drove up to the blue sedan. The car was pulled off the dirt road, near a thicket. The two bodies inside were starting to stiffen, and blood spatters stained the passenger windows. I hadn’t meant to kill them, but they gave me no choice. They had uncovered my embezzlement a day earlier. I took out the gas can and poured it liberally over them and the interior. Then I took my lighter, stepped back, and tossed it in. In a moment, the whole thing was ablaze.

I stepped back into the squad car. This wasn’t going on my official report.

Ten-year-old Ibrahim was admitted to the Kiboga district hospital in critical condition due to cerebral malaria. We patiently treated him with Artesunate around the clock and hoped for the best. Happily, within a few days, he regained consciousness and started to walk and a week later was discharged home with minimal neurologic damage.

Today, little Ibrahim came to our clinic with his grandmother and handed us a live rooster as a ‘thank you’ gift. All of us were very moved, but soon thereafter realized we now have a big problem: What in the world are we going to do with it?

Christi peered into the fog, waiting for the bus. Somehow, she missed it yesterday, forcing her to walk to school.

She saw distant headlights approaching but bent to tie her shoelace. The bus never slowed; it plowed ahead, leaving her behind.

Travis stared out the bus’s window as it passed a small bouquet of flowers propped against a lonely cross and a faded photo.

“Whatcha lookin’ at?” Cayden asked.

“Those flowers.”

“Yeah, it’s sad.”

“What happened?” Travis asked.

“A car killed a girl last week. She was standing too close to the road.”

Christi sighed, knowing she’d have to walk again.

The target was dead. A fraction of a second after the bullet had left the barrel of the Winchester .270 rifle it was embedded deep in the body, with a rapidly growing pool of blood spreading around the prostrate figure.

Seventy yards away, the killer emerged from his hiding place and cautiously moved forward, his gun still pointing towards his victim.

Once he was satisfied that there were no signs of life, he put his gun down on the ground and took out his phone. He took several selfies before his companions took the body away to prepare cuts of venison.

The blue chair appeared at the end of summer, at the place where the trail broke off and became sand. Almost hidden in an island of trees. A few days later, a hole in the sand with blackened logs laid across it. A backpack, a pair of pants. Scattered bullet shell casings. Tire tracks. A smashed microwave. I got into the habit of checking on the chair, the backpack, the pants, the microwave. I got into the habit of scanning the shadows. Of counting shell casings. Sometimes the blue chair would face forward. Sometimes not. I decided I’d better stop checking.

The phone rang. My husband sighed.

“Hey, Dad. What’s up?”

There were no doctors’ appointments, no pharmacy runs. Their community fed them and offered activities.

Alzheimer’s did not care.

“What? Your car fob battery died? Someone took it apart? Read me the number.”

He held the phone away from his ear. I heard “washing machine” and “clock alarms” before he signed off.

“He doesn’t understand. I have to…”

“Go,” I said. Then I asked him, “When are they going to take away his keys? How much longer must we endure these demands?”

“As long as he needs me,” my husband replied.