101 Words

“I just want nice things. Things my friends have—clothes and cars and furniture. I lie—lie to them when we speak about shopping and interior and—and God!”

An impending sob hides in her roaming, trembling eyes—he never understood how eyes could tremble so—and an earthquake of the hand induces shuddering tea, encapsulated by its cup.

He turns towards the cityscape where thousands of souls roam, like her eyes, shopping bags in hand, rushed faces equipped, moving from point A to point B in an inconceivable manner.

As tears stroke her cheeks he struggles to empathize, but can’t.

A gurgled roar bellowed from a distance. Grey fumes grew more vivid.

The huntress rose from her crouch, rearranged her weapons and set off running.

She moved swiftly, dodging stray branches and chipped trunks. She followed the tracks of the creature, making sure she made none.

A few more turns and twists, she came to a halt near a clearing. In the middle, stood a large beast surrounded by fire. It had horns of a bull and the body was of a disfigured dragon.

It was a sight to behold.

“I found you.”

Taking one silver arrowhead, she aimed and fired.

Autumn had passed and then winter and in the spring when the days grew warm and sunny we went out to play in the woods behind the house. Before we knew it there was a bright, full moon in the clear sky, and the sun set was still shining faintly in the West.

Suddenly my eyes became fixed on her cheeks, a rose red and her eyes sparkled as she spoke warm persuasive words. They were indeed divine. Then there it was again, that bewitching smile as she faded away into the whispering tree. Oh, how much I miss my mom.

A glaring bare light-bulb swings lazily overhead, stirred by the ceiling fan barely moving. Dirty sheets, rat turds on the sills, torn window screens inviting mosquitoes. In the Big Apple, this is where broke people like me end up. I dreamed of being a star, and failed. Now instead, I turn tricks to survive.

This is my life now. Gunshots filling the night, screams outside, neon blinking on the walls as I lay here, unknown, forgotten.

My last trick was my last. I lay dying, staring at the glaring bulb, sliced open, gutted. I think I met Jack—Jack the Ripper.