101 Words

“Rot propagates rot,” Grandma recites, pouring bleach into the washbasin. She prods at my appearance via veiled chatter while we scrub mildewed window frames. Mom comes home bubbling over with a story about a neighbour’s divorce. Her recounting ties judgement and fear into neat knots that strangle the details. I escape to the bathroom and frown at my hunched posture. Fragments like “You have to be so careful with—” and “Some women just don’t—” crawl down the hall and wriggle under the bathroom door. Senses freshly sharpened, I spot creeping patches of black embroidering the edge of the window behind me.

“And did you know the wind is caused by the trees flapping their branches at the same time?”

“Really, Dad?”

I nod, and Jake considers my words while we walk through the woods, occasionally stopping for me to pluck him another blackberry.

His lips are stained purple as he speaks. “Then how come it was windy when we went to London?”

“Well, you see, in cities they’ve had to build giant wind machines, because there aren’t enough trees there. Obviously.”

Jake thinks about that then accepts it happily. He races off with sudden energy—like a breeze blown by the trees.

“What do you think it means?” Jonah asked.

Hazel bit her lip, eyes focused on the canvas. “I think it means death and the eternal damnation of man.”

Jonah turned, a quizzical look on his face. “How did you get that from this? It’s clearly showing the birth of new life and bountiful harvests.”

The pair looked at each other, unsure of how the other got their answer, a new wave of curiosity piquing their interest in one another.

“What does the inscription say at the bottom?” Hazel enquired, sure that she understood the hidden meaning between each stroke.

“Stranded Ether…”

All over the city, umbrellas were flying away, against our will of course. We held onto them tightly for protection—from pestilence, from wide scary skies, from eye contact with strangers, from harsh realities—but they had the final word. No more shielding us! Our hands strained then let go, as those thin-ribbed bodies with black handles ascended—colorful jellyfish floating through liquid air, their earthly destiny complete. Finally exposed at last, you and I turned to each other without armor. Slowly we opened our eyes, and slowly we gasped at our mutual naked beauty shining in the deep blue sky.

Loud bawling accompanies the doorbell as I rush to open the door. Upon seeing me, the wailing of my son increases dramatically.

I check his hands and legs for bruises, first. Relieved on finding none, I ask my five-year-old, “Did you fall down?”

“Nooo, Jack called me…” He is too overcome to continue.

“Aah, I see,” I say, enlightened. Jack and Roshan are best friends, though they have developed a habit of angry disputes and mild name-calling off late.

“And what did Jack call you?” I ask, in my best soothing tone.

“A crybaby,” he whispers, before bursting into sobs again.

“It’s not safe to venture out there, Don,” my wife says, taking my hand. “Let’s wait till sunrise.”

“Fine.”

I sit, watching the snowfall. I can see her reflection, her perfect smile drawing closer.

“Care for some tea?” she asks.

I nod.

She returns, a cup and teapot on a tray. “Sugar?”

I make a peace sign.

“I think coming here was a perfect idea.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes. Now I finally have what I need for my latest novel,” she says.

“Will you finish it soon?”

“Absolutely, darling.”

I turn and see her approaching—ax poised high and a grin growing wider.

Charlie stormed out his front door at 3 a.m., as ‘Greensleeves’ tinkled tinnily from the ice cream truck creeping around the street corner on its tenth lap.

Eddie Gaskin from three houses up marched toward the truck. Eddie’s shouts critiqued the driver’s intellect (miniscule), hygiene (egregious), and parentage (interspecies).

With a turbo-charged roar, the truck ran Eddie down.

Charlie froze.

The driver’s eyes glowed red as the music changed to ‘Pop Goes the Weasel.’ Charlie felt, rather than saw, a wicked smile forming below the glowing eyes.

The truck’s engine sang a bestial horsepower hymn.

Charlie didn’t have time to scream.