101 Words

She appeared on my doorstep, bedraggled and hungry. White matted fur, prickly burrs, taut skin stretched across fine rib bones. I spent hours picking through her coat, gently removing the thorny barbs. She didn’t wince or scratch, just sat on my lap; pale blue eyes studying me, purring satisfaction at my efforts. I bathed her gently, rubbed her dry with a fluffy towel. She lapped at the saucer of warm milk, nibbled at the ham I’d finely diced and placed on a silver dish. I was already planning my solitary days around her.

“I guess I’ll name you Hope,” I whispered.

Sorry, had to dash—please…

– Feed kids and cats (kids playing next door)

– Take bins out—pick-up @ noon

– Call your mum for her birthday

– Put lasagna in oven 30 mins @ 180

– Ice cream in freezer, don’t forget vanilla for Clara

– Change cat litter before bed

– Drive Clara to ballet tomorrow

– Book Jake’s follow-up dentist appt for brace fitting

– Water plants Thurs

– Thaw shepherd’s pie for Tues

– Cancel Friday’s restaurant bkg

– Clean loo (bleach, etc. under sink)

– Sort out stinky blocked drain outside

– Load whites and wash @ 60—Ecover

stain remover on shirt collar

(should get lipstick out nicely)

Robertism had its origins in God’s message to Robert revealing that the original story of the Creation was inaccurate. On the Seventh Day, God didn’t actually rest but instead created the chicken.

This revelation solved an irritating problem that had long vexed humankind. Robertism quickly became the world’s dominant religion, ushering in an era of unprecedented peace and prosperity.

Two hundred years later, Robertism split into two irreconcilable factions when a holy woman emerged out of Africa with a revisionist interpretation: Robert had misunderstood God’s words. It was not the chicken but the egg that God created on the Seventh Day.

I place the Super Lemon candy on my tongue. Immediately, my lips pucker, eyes squint, and hands flap wildly in the air. “Too sour!”

While other fourth graders laugh, Conner holds out his palm. “Gimme.”

I spit the candy into his hand and watch him pound his fist in the air like a judge pounding a gavel, his lips sucking inward.

Our classmates start counting.

At “Mississippi 20,” Conner’s face relaxes. He spits out the candy and hands it back to me, smiling. “All good now.”

I pop it in my mouth and chew. The center is sweet. Just like Conner.

“Complaint number?”

“92235X996W.”

“How can I assist?”

“It’s about my headset. It’s malfunctioning.”

“What seems to be the problem?”

“When I wear it, I can see Richard. And I think he sees me. But it doesn’t sound like him, and his mannerisms are all wrong.”

“To which contact are you referring?”

“Richard Branson. My husband.”

“Birthdate?”

“11/20/2005.”

“We apologize for the disappointment; however, there’s nothing we can do.”

“But…I paid a lot to visit him in the Metaverse! I thought he’d be exactly the same!”

“I’m sorry, ma’am. Please refer to your contract. We can’t guarantee anybody who passed before 2050.”

He turns up drunk. Another night of beery vomit and piss on the carpet. Turn off the TV. Turn the cat out. Turn off the lights. Turn in for the night. Turn over in a futile effort to sleep. Turn up the volume of your fake orgasm—it makes him come more quickly. Turn on the shower and wash him out of you. Turn to the wall to avoid his foetid breath. Once, he turned your head with his witty banter. Now you have no one else to turn to. This year, though, you will turn another page. Without him.

The boys are our age—six, maybe seven, barefoot and wearing shorts. Their brown arms wave sticks at a green snake, a venomous viper coiled on a branch above them. My sister’s white hand tugs at mine, but I won’t move.

The snake’s mouth gapes, the inside raw meat. It sways S shapes, hissing, reaching ever closer. Stones arc across a blue sky. Suddenly the green head snaps back. It falls to the ground, between us and the boys. They cheer and poke its inert body, then take their triumphant laughter with them, walking towards the mud huts in the distance.