101 Words

There was a fairy ring—a small circle of mushrooms—at the bottom of Claire’s garden. Claire didn’t believe in fairies, nor did she like mushrooms. The only option, she decided, was to don some rubber gloves and dig them up.

It wasn’t long before she began to regret doing so. Things went missing from her house: first an old mug, then her keys.

They turned up a few days later in an almost identical fairy ring in her neighbour’s garden. He was less surprised by the sudden appearance of Claire’s possessions than that mushrooms were growing on his artificial turf.

Two red cars, one black car, one green car, two blue. The city bus I’m on speeds through traffic, then screeches to a halt as three jaywalkers waddle past. Two pedestrians, one chubby pigeon. One white car, three red…no. That doesn’t follow the pattern. My head throbs and I close my eyes, concentrating instead on the music moseying its way out of my earbuds. I tap my shoes to the rhythm. Two beats, one beat, one beat, two. Two Wellbutrins in the morning, one Adderall at lunch, one Accupril at midafternoon, and two Ambien at night. It all fits the pattern.

A brain tumor.

Six months to live.

I hadn’t thought about death before my diagnosis, even as I am bombarded by news reports of the virus’ spread.

I had gone to Catholic school where they taught ‘creationism and heaven’ after breakfast and ‘evolution and eternal oblivion’ after lunch. I am still confused.

I visited my aunt after the virus got her. Strapped to the bed, eyes distant, teeth chattering. When I offered my arm, she hesitated before her new impulses took over and she saw meat.

Is it better to be undead than dead? As my mind fades, worry fades too.

Alec liked collecting caterpillars. Not much made Alec happy, but caterpillars did.

The way their bodies moved—gentle waves across soft backs. He liked how their tiny feet tickled his palm.

Alec had a special jar for them to live in, with holes in the lid for air. Each morning, he placed fresh leaves inside to ensure they ate well.

One day, the caterpillars vanished, leaving behind strange brown pods. Alec just stood there, palms sweaty and body shaking. Nothing could console him.

All he could do was hope they’d reappear.

Days later, they did; as the most beautiful rainbow butterflies.

“Don’t believe them folk tales, do ye?” the shipmate asked the fisherman.

The icy Scottish waters rocked them steadily towards the distant island, but the air was silent.

“Aye, and you should too. They say the great beast can take many a form. Lures you in when it’s small, eats whales when it’s—”

The island suddenly shifted into a great, oscillating mass, changing shape and color, a multitude of eyes and fins.

“I believe in it now,” the shipmate cursed as the fisherman prayed.

Huge waves rocked the ship violently as the Cirein-cròin skittered towards them, mouth gaping.

Ready to eat.

I hadn’t been to a museum for ages. I remember my mother holding me by the hand, guiding me around, explaining, scolding for touching, indicating pencil lines, flashes of colour, the meaning of life in vivid brush strokes.

I approached the entrance nervously. I opted for the handset, the one that talks in your ear, explains every move you make, tells you where to stare, what to see.

There was a box to leave it as I left. I didn’t. I kept hold, hoping, that once more, my mother would speak to me, tell me what to do, where to look.