101 Words

I stop only a fleeting moment. Short, sharp breaths fill my lungs and I try to catch them. My jittery eyes dart around, continually searching for my pursuers. I spot one; his hungry gaze bearing down on me. Anxious arms stretch out as he sprints in my direction. My feet kick up dust as I zag away from his clumsy attempt to capture me.

This chase seems eternal but deep inside I know I’ll lose. But I can still hope. There is salvation. The myth we all know—the president will pardon one of us for Thanksgiving. It could be me.

The kids sat in the bus in silence. Puzzled glances were exchanged, while the unhappy Museum Director stood at the front, flanked by our teachers.

“These tesserae have lain undisturbed for over 1,700 years. Someone has taken a souvenir from the ‘Gladiators’ mosaic and I want it back.”

Mr. Jones, our history teacher, surveyed the kids’ faces for any signs of guilt. Long seconds ticked by, but there were no clues…

Fifty-five years on, I turn the little piece of agate over in my hand, full of regret.

I put it back in the plastic 1960’s wallet where I’d rediscovered it.

Heavy boots broke the night’s silence, and Reuben knew it was time for him to fly with Isaak to safety. In darkness they ran for the Rabbi’s basement and a secret hatch that led to the river. Reuben knew: he’d designed this very ghetto. Soon black ice water held and lifted them aloft.

But the boy, unable to swim, thrashed hard.

“Let me hold you,” Reuben said.

Isaak, disregarding his father’s instructions, floundered.

“Don’t let go,” his father pleaded. Freedom was close enough to taste.

Isaak, ignoring his father, plummeted downwards into the depths, bearing with him his father’s last dream.

Loud music, boisterous laughter, and free flowing spirits. Indeed the party was in full swing.

“Have a drink today, baby. After all, it’s your 25th anniversary,” Mrs. Kapoor coaxed the hostess, Mrs. Madhu.

“I don’t drink,” Madhu replied, while gliding into her husband’s arms on the dance floor.

Madhu and Milind looked the perfect couple.

By the time the guests left, both were exhausted,

More than exhaustion, Madhu’s hitherto pleasant demeanour had given way to resentment.

Milind, groggy, fumbled with the car keys.

“Can’t leave that bitch even today, can you Milind?” she spat, downing her third glass, left all alone.

“I surrender,” she said. “Completely. Utterly.” She dropped most of her weapons, stumbled closer. “I know when I’m beaten. I mean, you can read minds! Or something, my emotions, intent, whatever. It’s too confusing.”

She shrugged, unhitching her limb extensions for a little extra reach—the better to apologise with—to piteously clutch at his garments with her carbide-knuckled hands. “I never should have—”

Embarrassed now, she tugged at her hair, tangled with secret blades. She couldn’t meet his eyes, looked humbly to his jugular instead.

“I’m just so sorry. For everything.”

Defeated, fumbling, overwhelmed, she coiled into a practiced crouch.

Ms. Tiburon had the only house on Fountain Road with a pristine green lawn, but it came at a cost.

From sunrise to sunset, she policed her lawn’s perimeter with a meticulous eye.

She chased away dog walkers, neighborhood kids, and any other daytime threats. Her aggressive tactics often began with harsh words and ended with violators receiving an unwanted sprinkler shower.

As other lawns became tainted with yellow spots and footprints, her landscaping and ego remained unspoiled.

When burglars arrived one night, they too recognized her yard’s exquisiteness.

“If this is just the exterior, what’s within the interior?” they wondered.