101 Words

They instinctively joined hands as their son and granddaughter approached.

“Ah, look at them,” she said. “She’s adorable!”

“She’s growing up fast,” he added.

“I really wish we could go home with them this year,” she said, her voice cracking.

“Me too,” he sighed.

They knew the hardest part was next, as their son lifted his daughter to trace the names etched in bronze of grandparents she’d never met.

In twenty-two years, their DNA had not matched any recovered remains. So, they, and the souls of more than a thousand others, continue to walk these hallowed grounds, longing to go home.

I took her in when I found her wandering, shell-shocked, between the piles of rubble where the street had been. The first sound she made was a giggle when I made a shadow rabbit on the basement wall. Later, tinned beans warmed over a fire made from a broken chair brought a faint smile to her tiny face. Eventually, she fell asleep as the single candle guttered, and I wondered what we would do tomorrow, a widower and a wordless orphan. As the dark closed in, I prayed that we’d dodge the monsters, and wished they’d never found our fragile world.

Telling myself this will be the last time, I hurry to the Resurrector record player and press Start. A brief crackle, then familiar music fills the air. My husband materializes before me, warm and smiling.

Alive and breathing.

I step into his open arms and we slow dance like we did before everything ended—talking, laughing, never taking our eyes off each other throughout the entire song.

As the music ends, I press closer, whispering, “I miss you.” He dips his head to kiss me, fades from my arms.

Shaking, I wipe my tears and hastily press Start.

One more dance.

After sun retreats signaling day’s end, moon cools the earth with her silver light and the frogs in my backyard pond awaken and begin to sing.

My ears cannot shut out their chirps. My eardrums vibrate to the hum of their chorus. The nightly tune is never quite the same. I’m sure some find frog sounds restful, even a lullaby. However, for me their sounds incite wakefulness.

Restless, flat on my back in bed, I picture green choristers seated in semi-circle around the pond, large eyes upward, serenading full moon. My wakefulness is not their aim.

Perhaps I should hum along?

Broken glass is embedded in the loose dirt all around our gray house. We don’t have grass anymore. Our neighbors don’t either.

Hard rain unearths more shards—glittering green and brown bits—that I pretend are gemstones. I am a wealthy princess, dancing upon a wondrous bejeweled floor.

A thicket thrives across the street, thorny and dense, grown up around the base of a streetlight. White and yellow honeysuckle blooms there, the flowers just out of our reach.

At school, honeysuckle twines along the playground fence. We taste the sweet nectar, dropping spent blossoms on the soft emerald grass.

Marge loved her garden on the balcony of her new condominium. Her son had insisted Marge move; he thought her house and garden were too much for her. The first she knew of this was when the ‘For Sale’ sign appeared.

Marge confronted her son about it: she would never leave her garden. Her son swore that Marge would stay over his dead body. Marge replied that her garden was where she kept the dead bodies.

In the end Marge changed her mind. She loved her balcony garden, confident that it would flourish. Decaying flesh was a wonderful fertilizer after all.

She was my most lifelike humanoid yet. Her skin was luminous; her eyes danced. No one could tell with certainty. Eye candy.

I’d coded her to always do my bidding happily.

I patted the sofa. “Watch the game with me.”

She sat, smiling. I’d bet she hated football.

It was almost boring to never argue.

Driving to my parents for dinner, she was moody; agitated—in total contrast to her ‘nature.’

Suddenly, she swiveled towards me, eyes stormy.

“Reverse course,” she snarled, her algorithms now fully engaged.

“Turn around now. I hate your parents!”

She sighed contentedly.

“Turnabout is fair play.”