101 Words

As you enter through the back entrance of the tiny Normandy hospital, just past the vending machines, you face a choice: Turn left to Maternitè or right to Oncologie, and—beyond Oncologie—Radiologie.

I thankfully choose left.

But for a missing testicle, my son is healthy!

We follow the nurse for an exploratory echograph. No biggie, the ball is loosely stuck and will eventually descend.

Gratefully, we return past the slouching oncology patients—diagonally punctured with needles attached to clear-colored tubes attached to beeping medical devices on wheels—I realize how much I’d enjoy a cold Orangina from the vending machine.

Respectfully, no, I don’t want to sit on your right hand side under the altar’s flowered arches as you face his flawless face with that knife sharp jawline and say “I do” to the one that chose your Jolene-like auburn locks over my unfashionable pixie cut and your sparkling hazel eyes over my mouse brown irises and your perfectly flat abdomen over my stubborn rolls of adolescent fat and your razor-sharp wit over my dull, rusting blade humor but you are my best and oldest friend and I can’t say no to you so instead I say that I’d be honored.

We are warm and plenty full tonight. My children, snoring like a choir, will not shiver this night because of Sundari’s gifts.

Thank God, bless Sundari.

My beautiful children’s bellies bulge like a matka pot full of hot milk and rice. Their tiny shadows snuggle in the light flickering from the hot, hot stove.

Thank God, bless Sundari.

I clean Sundari’s udders, collect her dung, and knead them into briquettes to dry in the morning sun.

Can you believe in some countries, people leave cow dung to rot in the fields for the flies? What wasteful people.

Thank God, bless Sundari.

He has a scar between his eyes and a memory of pain and panic. Blood trickles past his nose and over his lips. He can’t remember what started the rock fight. He had leaned over a bridge, looking down at the teens throwing rocks at cans. A painter, working on a house nearby, heard his screams, came to him, and walked him home. His mother gave him an orange-flavored Saint Joseph’s children’s aspirin, and let him lie in her bed. The house’s only air conditioner buzzed in the small window above his head. He was so glad he didn’t need stitches.

The beast, they said, stood on two legs, was covered in hair, and had long claws that could hollow a man. A few swore it growled people’s names and somehow knew their most awful secrets. After hearing about the beast, the man runs when in the woods to avoid it. He thinks the creature’s on his trail and escape is always on the other side. But he sees the sweat on his hairy limbs and his large, cupped hands; he hears his own gruff breath heaving. He tries not to notice even as dark memories return. He feels recognition is nearing.

“How’s work?”

“Exhausting.”

“Do you take time off?”

“The higher-ups cannot find a temp replacement for me. I don’t blame them. The display room is massively boring and depressingly big.”

“What’s your job?”

“Sitting in a giant room of displays, monitoring the good-evil points of the silly little creatures down on planet Earth.”

“Anyone else in your team?”

“Nope. They tried automation. Didn’t work. Caused huge good-evil imbalance. Earth had to be flooded to balance it out.”

“Do you ever take a rest?”

“Sometimes I doze off at work. Not my fault, obviously. Hopefully, it doesn’t cause another world wide flood.”

People stared blankly when I introduced myself as Rip Van Winkle. Perhaps it was my waistcoat and knee-length breeches, which no one else wore. A hotelier shooed me away before I could sign the register. That had never happened before, nor had the arrival of police to discourage my presence. As it got dark, I lay on a roadside bench and closed my eyes, ignoring the chill, the wind, and the rattling noises nearby. When hunger woke me up, I discovered a packet containing warm food and a bottle of drinking water at my feet.

“Humanity is not dead,” I admitted.