101 Words

No matter what he composed on the computer, it came out reading: What you have written does not meet the content requirements set forth by the United States of America. He tried to research what this content mandate was. He tried to list all the presidents, type the Pledge of Allegiance, but still the message: What you have written does not meet the… Then, he cracked. He spewed out antigovernment rhetoric ’till he was blue in the face. And, to his surprise, he stared at it all, there, blaring back at him on the screen. Not long after, the doorbell rang.

Winter must be here, first frost this morning. A hard one.

“Where are my gloves?” I shout.

“Under the stairs, usual drawer,” comes the reply.

Open the car door and insert key. Engine fires up after a couple of seconds.

Heated screen, rear window and mirrors set to max. Dashboard warning ‘Beware of ice.’ Gee, thanks.

Where is the scraper?

Stroke of luck, in the glove box. Back outside, start to scrape the screen. Damn, it’s cold.

That will do, must be warm inside by now. Bliss, all clear and ready to go.

Select first gear; release the handbrake; we’re off.

My head slams back as the car accelerates. I try to shout, but my voice is silenced with fear. A wave of nausea hits me, and soon hot bile ascends my throat. I shut my eyes, wishing it were just a dream. But the screams around me tell me otherwise. My teeth clench, and I cling to the bottom of my seat like a lifeline. Two minutes later, the car screeches to a stop, and I relax as a woman’s voice blares overhead: Welcome back, everyone. I hope you enjoyed Aftershock. Enjoy the rest of your day at King’s Theme Park.

I was jogging when I heard it.

“How dare you, boy!” A man shouting.

I turned. A house. The front window was dark, but the shadows twitched.

A muffled scream reached my ears, and I ran to the window and peered in.

A man repeatedly punching a child on a settee. No screaming, just a relentless dull thwack.

I banged on the window. Nothing. So I picked up a rock and smashed the window. The man jumped up, rigid. But the boy didn’t move, he just stared at the floor. So I hit the man with the rock.

Thwack, thwack, thwack.

The stray dog leaves the scruffy ball next to a figure on a snowy bench. It lifts its eyes, the way dogs do; its gaze could melt even a heart of stone. But that man clearly has no heart at all.

The dog keeps looking at the unapologetic statue in vain hopes. Eventually, it gives up and nestles against its bronze legs.

“So, are we gonna do this, sugar?” the prostitute asks. “It’s 25 percent off throughout the lockdown.”

I look at the dog again. It seems like it has found some sort of warmth, after all.

“Get in,” I say.

Rhonda positioned her laptop in front of her prized wall of books and adjusted her red wool scarf. The navy striped top was unflattering, yes, but she had to look the part.

Logging on, her eyes fell upon corn-rowed Shaya in a camouflage singlet. Rhonda scoffed. ‘She wasn’t a writer! More like someone who’d accost you on the street. Steal your purse or ask for money.’

For the final assignment, Shaya got a high distinction. Rhonda, a pass.

“But I have a writing room! And I’ve read all these books!”

Furious, Rhonda went back to her books, and Shaya, her writing.