101 Words

She stood under the harsh bathroom light wondering about the damage. This was going to be harder to explain than demanding to talk to the slow delivery driver’s manager, or throwing out the barely burnt cookies.

Nothing was ever good enough. She was never good enough. Why couldn’t anyone else see that? Even an expensive haircut couldn’t hide her flaws and imperfections.

“I’ll just trim this bit the hairdresser missed.”

One hour later and she was probably mostly bald at this point. It was hard to tell in the smashed mirror. She started washing the blood and hair down the drain.

His coworkers called Mark fat. Behind his back, but never to his face. Human Resources banned body shaming. Instead they recommended intermittent fasting, keto diets, and fancy gym equipment.

Science said fat was stored energy his body may call upon. He preferred that explanation.

Ten minutes of exercise increases life span by eight minutes, he read. What a waste of two minutes.

His plane went down during his summer vacation. Most passengers survived the crash but starved on a deserted island awaiting rescue.

A boat rescued Mark six months later—the new Mark, who had lost more than a hundred pounds.

My heart feels as heavy as the rain.
You tell her you’ll stay, but then you walk away.
Your true self is hidden behind shadows
And far from her sight.
You tricked her into falling
Yet you never intended to catch her.
She drowned in your empty promises, your lies in disguise.
You were her sun and her moon, her brightness.
But behind closed doors, you were her darkness.
Even the blind could see her, bruised in discoloured hues.
She was drugged by your presence,
She was drugged by the abuse.
And, even in the end,
She could never leave you.

Unheard of, an East Japan Railway delay. And yesterday’s landslide would be no excuse. He pulled into Ebisu’s platform 4 to the strains of ‘The Third Man’ seven-second hassha signalling his next departure.

He jumped from the cab, running into the distance of platform 2; deftly weaving between thousands of commuters under the blue LED lights. Designed to reduce passenger stress, now signalling the opposite to him.

Run!

Move!

Heart pounding, he vaulted the barrier and leapt into the E259. Departure alarm sounded, switch pressed.

On time. His employer’s 100 percent punctuality maintained. His job safe for the next 48 minutes.

“Tilt back your nose,” my uncle said. Blood ran in two streams across my upper lip and slopped down both sides of my mouth. “You’re always staring at the ground. That’s probably why the punk popped you.” His lips were squeezed tight. He had been in two wars and one prison. When he died, his friend Alejandro knelt by the casket. His shiny tears fell to the floor. My mother stared at him. Her lips pressed so tightly together they made a single line. Then she looked at me and said, “It’s good he’s dead. His life never made any sense.”

I recall, as a teen, an incident on the beach where I was surrounded by a group of boys trying to beat me, claiming I had stolen a ball they were playing with. I had asked to join their game and they had agreed; so I was shocked to hear their accusation and see them homing in on me. My mother saw and came to assist, much to their mockery of how “I was not really a man because I was hiding behind my mother.” Yet none of them came any closer when they saw that broken bottle in my hand.