101 Words

It seemed Bobby had two kinds of days at school, bullied or ignored. Today was the latter.

Lunch alone. Nachos. Good, but the chips were stale. While eating, a chip got stuck in his windpipe.

He couldn’t panic. They’d laugh.

He stood and walked discreetly from the cafeteria; then he dashed to the boy’s room. Thankfully, empty.

He had to act fast. He went into a stall, locked it, knelt by the toilet, put a finger down his throat, and retched until the chip came free. Tearfully, he gasped. Just a raw throat.

He saved his own life and nobody knew.

Cliff proudly placed his completed model ship in the nursing home window. A breeze filled the white cloth sails. He smiled at the quiet onlookers hoping they might marvel that such a stately ship had once sailed free and unbound. That they might imagine the steady wind that powered it to Zanzibar, Calcutta, and Dakar, ports like nets to catch youthful dreams.

A man in a wheelchair remembered his childhood fantasy of being a swashbuckling Errol Flynn. A widow in a housecoat remembered a long ago sail with her husband. Another man dropped his final solitaire card and started another game.

Anna skipped along the path ahead of Mommy and Greg, shuffling leaves with her patent leather shoes. Anna liked Greg. He visited often.

“They’re all the same. Which one’s Daddy’s?”

“A little farther.”

Anna skipped and shuffled until Mommy said, “Here—this one.”

“Where? I wanna see.”

“There.”

Jeremy L Hudlow
Sgt
US Army
Afghanistan
Loving Husband
and Father

Mommy blew her nose. “Let’s go, Anna. We don’t want to be late for the rehearsal.”

As Anna followed them back to the car, Mommy took Greg’s hand. With his right pinky, he fondled the diamond ring on her left hand.

That night, when bombs stopped painting the sky with fire, when darkness thickened again around the lightless town, the men opened their doors and walked toward a clearing where a single car idled on precious gas. A television set perched on its hood drew life from the battery.

One by one they gathered around the small screen. Arms around shoulders they huddled tight and with hungry eyes they watched unwarring countries at play. For every goal or miss, the men shifted and moved. They clenched fists, stomped feet, but swallowed their cheers so silence would linger as long as it could.

The hiss of a raspy breath woke Timmy, yanking him from sleep. The school librarian stood over his bed, her white hair a ghostly halo in the moonlight. He shivered as she came closer, her milky eyes cold.

“Miss Peters?”

“Shh, boy.” Her papery lips pursed, displeased. “Why don’t you tell me where those overdue books are?”

Timmy gulped. “I lost them.”

“That’s what I feared.” Her bony hand locked around his wrist, her grip surprisingly strong. As she pressed his palm to the nightstand, she drew a sharp silver blade from her sleeve. “A finger for each book seems fair.”

My heart pounds. I know I have messed up.

I am sorry. My darling, please forgive me.

He walks towards me, eyes glaring. His hand rises, and a sense of déjà vu washes over me. I raise my arms in the shape of an ‘X’ across my face.

He strikes. I fall.

I cannot run. There is nowhere to hide.

Why hadn’t I made dinner sooner? How could I allow myself to come home late?

He grabs my wrist. It is tight, too tight. What happened to our old love?

“Stop,” I whisper.

He does not hear me.

He never does.