101 Words

A child was kicking the back of my seat.

His mother cooed for him to stop.

The plane was filling with winter sun-seekers.

A large woman got on carrying two screaming babies.

My heart popped into my mouth to have a look.

I whiplashed my head around. No empty seats

Squeezing in beside me, she smiled. I smiled back; I was dying inside.

After we took off, she asked me what time we would arrive in Glasgow. I laughed and told her it’s a flight to Tenerife.

She showed me her ticket and smirked.

I kicked the seat in front and screamed.

She enters our shop on a slow day. Purple braids, glowing brown skin, and an infectious smile. She’s drenched from the rain, clothes plastered to her skin, but she looks perfectly comfortable in the discomfort. She expresses a love for Macaroons and, with a wistful twist of her features, says she hasn’t had ours in ages.

We click, and we flirt; she’s a charmer. Yet, I feel rejection looming. She feels out of reach. Beautiful, interesting girls usually are.

But when I see her on the news the next day, suicide by drowning, I feel like I missed every obvious sign.

Rory’s posture slouched as she eyed the gnarled clump of hair trying to find its way through the tiny drain holes in the tub. It was far too copious for fine-textured hair. No. Standing with a hand mirror in front of the vanity mirror confirmed a wide gap in length visible between her shoulders. Rory gently grasped sharp styling scissors high on a shelf. She directed them at the long lingering side strands. Taking deep breaths, her fingers in the circles carefully opening the blades; they shut with a fierce snap. The blood flowed thick and rich down her back. Luxuriantly.

I’m a normal person. I have an apartment, I’m a librarian, and I go out Friday nights.

I can’t keep a boyfriend though.

It starts out nice. We flirt, have dinner. We go steady for a few weeks and he leaves.

Could it be my doll collection? Lots of people collect things! It’s not like I hoard knives. I’m proud of my dolls, handmade with natural material. Life sized and life like. I don’t know why men get so squeamish when they see them!

But thanks to my collection I have a permanent keepsake of the short time we spent together.

Even though it was February, he still referred to it as spring cleaning. The same time every year, without fail.

He worked quickly, scrubbing at the surface with a soft brush, rinsing off the dirt and then repeating the process. Finally, he used a dry cloth to wipe away the remaining moisture and to give everything a slight sheen.

He raised himself from his numbed knees and brushed his trousers a few times. Kissing two fingers on his right hand, he laid them briefly on top of the gravestone. The frozen ground crunched underfoot as he walked away for another year.

The air raid shelter feels like a damp tomb; it is almost a relief when the explosions finally come. The earth heaves in welcome and Pieter flies into the air, his head ricocheting on the ground.

When he wakes, it is to darkness and nostrils choked in dust. He screams and somewhere above him voices respond. Light pierces his eyes as hands reach down to lift him free.

He is a ghost, covered in grime. A nurse holds Pieter to her breast, but he pushes away. It is only when his lips meet hers that he realizes he is still alive.