101 Words

He slapped me, HARD! My head jerked right. I gasped in fresh air. I hadn’t been aware of the gas leak. The need to lie down and sleep was overpowering, so I did. He slapped once more. I opened my eyes and saw a blurry, unfamiliar, bearded face framed by the bluest sky I have ever been in love with. The warm green grass under my body felt like heaven. Thank God I was on top and not under it. I may have been if this man intent on burglarizing my home had not dragged me out.

My stuff is yours.

Nana’s eyelids flutter open. She raises her head.

“I have to go, they’re here for me.”

I look around. Empty room. “Who’s here, Nana?”

She frowns. “Papa and Samuel. Don’t you see them?”

“No one’s there, Nana.”

But she sighs, gazing off into the vacant corner.

Suddenly, she gasps, “Samuel is so young!”

I take her hand, stroke her thumb. “Nana!?”

“Yes, dear.”

“Are you going now?”

She collapses, sinking into the bed, dwindling somehow. I guess so.

“What’s it like?”

Her dimple appears, disappears. “Gravity.”

Her face is exultant. When it relaxes, I watch her light leave with two others.

She sometimes forgot to brush her hair, lock the door, and eat, but she held onto words by keeping her favourites in a book tanned by sunlight, dust, and age.

When she was little, she loved slurp, candy, bubble, happy, dream, fart, play.

In high school, she hoarded journey, horizon, zenith, crimson, Xanadu.

At work, she scribbled sickie, deadline, jargon.

Belly swelling, she learned lactose, epidural, and a few new swearwords.

Once the wrinkles deepened, she discovered celestial, ether, indigo, transcendent, rise, redeem, revelation.

When she died, they wrote loved on the last page and buried the yellowed book beside her.

“Keep the noise down, I’m writing,” John declared imperiously positioning his gold-tipped Parker.

‘Va Pensiero’ was playing on Classic FM. ‘Hebrew Slaves.’ How appropriate, Cheryl thought, hanging the washing on the line.

She breathed in the outdoors. Citrus fragrance from mock orange mixed with the heady smell of honeysuckle. The sound of sparrows squabbling, inharmonious with the soft tinkling of wind chimes.

Perhaps ‘Surviving His Retirement’ for my own competition entry? Cheryl mused, plugging the hoover in.

“Can’t you do that later?” came a querulous voice. “A cup of tea wouldn’t go amiss.”

Cheryl scribbled furiously: ‘How to murder your husband.’

“Your Majesty, I am the sole survivor. They deployed neurotoxins.” The wing commander staggered, shuddered, and collapsed. Six of the queen’s attendants rushed forward and dragged their sister’s lifeless body from the chamber.

The queen’s barbed voice stilled her agitated subjects. “You have all heard the casualty reports. These losses are not sustainable. We must embrace a new strategy. Henceforth, no workers shall go forth to pollinate. We shall remain within the hive, living on our food reserves.”

“But there will be no crops!” gasped the nearest honeybee.

“Then the humans will starve. We shall not.”

The court buzzed with approval.

Marco, in his threadbare jeans, watches another boy, wearing fancy clothes and shiny shoes, ride the Wish Carousel. Marco jumps over the fence and climbs on, eyes closed, wishing he could be like the rich boy. When Marco opens his eyes, he has fancy clothes and shiny shoes.

Paulo, with his threadbare genes, watches the poor boy jump onto the moving carousel. Eyes closed, Paulo wishes he could be like him. When Paulo opens his eyes, he has sturdy legs in tattered clothes. He tests out his first steps, then runs to help the other boy who has just fallen down.

A crocodile floats through Farmer Huang’s bamboo field, becoming news when he informs the fire brigade. Lacking reptile expertise, they refer him to the agriculture minister, who advises, condescendingly, “Crocodiles aren’t native. It’s probably a green iguana.”

Past nightfall, Farmer Huang wades waist-deep through duckweed, cooing, “You’re just a petite swamp kitty, crocodile.” Folding down bamboo leaves for the fearsome visitor to rest its improbable jaw, he affirms, “Just stay where you are and feel spiritual.”

Farmer Huang is not spiritual and doubts crocodiles incline towards superstitious consolations, but reckons such a line on the morning news might sell some bamboo.