101 Words

Her son is eight years old. She and his dad have driven two hours to retrieve him from his first sleepover camp. He lasted one night. She sits in the back seat with him, holding his hand, certain she has scarred him for life.

“I ate some grass,” he says.

“You did?” she says. “When? Why?”

“It didn’t matter to them that I was homesick but if I was really sick, they would definitely call you.”

She squeezes his hand. Silently, she praises his creative problem solving, always on the lookout herself for ways to convince others her sadness is real.

Derek awoke in a room that wasn’t the room he had gone to bed in. He thought at first he must somehow have been hospitalized. But the room was much too cold.

Getting to his feet, he stood naked in black socks and wingtips. A suit and other clothing lay abandoned on a nearby table.

Bemused, he parted what he thought were floor length window curtains and found himself before a gathering of flushed faces.

“To Derek!” they shouted, raising their glasses high.

Peeved but resigned, Derek blew them kisses, bowed graciously and, closing the curtains, finished dressing for the occasion.

“Michelle, you’re pitching next inning,” said the softball coach. “Go warm up.”

Michelle put on her glove and stepped behind the dugout.

“I can catch for her,” offered Lisa’s dad.

“Thanks, Jerry,” said Coach. “Gloves are by the bench.”

“Nah, won’t need one. She’s just fifth grade.” Jerry hitched up his belt. He strode behind the dugout and squatted about 35 feet from the little pitcher. The ball was bigger than her hand.

Two pitches later, Jerry reached for a glove with crimson hands. He resumed his squat.

Michelle struck out the side. Jerry held two ice-cold sodas while he watched.

The robotic voice pierces the air. “One minute to collision.”

I tremble. One minute to death.

“40 seconds.”

I yank at my cell’s metal bars.

“30 seconds.”

I scream for help—a guard, another inmate, anyone. There’s only one voice.

“20 seconds.”

It’s hopeless. I slump on the floor, devastated. This is where I die.

“10 seconds.”

I look out the window, see the moon float towards the earth. Beautiful. “Okay,” I whisper, and smile.

The oxygen mask comes off my face, that hollow voice ringing through the air. “Inner peace found. Simulation over.”

I leave the lab a changed man.

We ripped the doors off my rusty mustang, Joni and I. They came off easy, like moth wings. Sparks scattered across steel when we carved a hole in the roof, but the fire’s gone now that we’re rocketing faster than light itself. As we fly over asphalt mirages, the roaring wind rips away Joni’s manic screams. Speeding in a dilapidated car, we run from belts and locked doors and accusations of sin.

When the time is right, I take the exit to nowhere. The toll fee is one sharp turn and your whole future. We pay the price gladly, foolishly unafraid.

She was sensible, solid, everyone in the village said so. No oil painting, mind, but a good wife, mother, knew how to budget, housekeep. They weren’t saying that about me though. Divorcee, couldn’t be trusted, wouldn’t be trusted. Beverley, my new neighbour, told me this on day one. And so our friendship began.

One Christmas, listening to the radio, callers estranged from families, she said, “They’re the lucky ones.”

When Beverley stepped out of her life and disappeared I was less surprised than others.

Later, a solicitor’s letter informed me Beverley had died alone, penniless.

It’s what she would have wanted.