101 Words

The RKO movie palace hangs as jewelry on Main Street in New Rochelle, New York; the title crowned with marquee illumination as glass door slippers shine forward transforming all who entered into royalty. The long dead echo of crowds haunts with footsteps tapping on marble as red velvet curtains slide like a sheet over eyes shocked with light. I stand in front on a frame of sidewalk that projects a gray feature into the horizon. A wrecking ball is now hitting the theater, a giant hypnotist swinging a pendulum inducing death. The sound it makes as it falls—technology’s soulless applause.

Over wine, the women whispered stories of virginity lost. Sasha offered a tale of premature ejaculation and an impromptu trip to the pharmacy, followed by burgers at the diner across the street—his treat. What would your husband think? the others teased. As the laughter faded into the next story, Sasha’s gaze became unfocused. Maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was the memory of that walk into town, a walk that felt sweet and not shameful. The wind was raw that afternoon and neither of them had worn gloves, so Rob took her hand and tucked it into his pocket.

Despite her numb fingers from the cold, she managed to write a perfect ‘A’ with a red crayon. The little yellow chair was uncomfortable and she needed to go to the washroom, but was afraid to ask.

A large window framed a breathtaking sight of the mountains, but her eyes only sought the patch where a large fire blazed. on a slope in the distance.

“It’s a forest fire! It can reach the school and burn it down!” she had heard a little boy exclaim.

She wished it would, then Mom would have to take her home.

Boarding school wasn’t fun.

The car slowed down to let me cross the crosswalk and then accelerated to run me over. I was saved by a nun passing by; her light overshadowed the driver—he missed me. It would be a miracle, but it started raining.

I asked, “Do you have an umbrella?”

“Yes, but it is mine,” she replied.

“What do I do with this rain falling on me? Have pity sister. After all, you saved me.”

“God will have compassion upon thee, so I’ll keep the umbrella,” she retorted as she walked away protected.

I’ll never understand this relationship between nuns and rain.

She had woken, twisted in pain. The house slept soundly, the pain didn’t. That night she called her Mother.

The surgeon arrived with students in pressed white coats. During surgery they had done all they could, for now.

She’d had signs, sought answers, had been assured all was well. She knew her experiences were not ‘natural’.

The damage was extensive; he told her she couldn’t have children.

That night she heard cries of babies being born. New life beginning, while part of hers had ended.

How cruel it was, to put the Gynecology and Maternity Wards within earshot of each other.

The ghost in the attic disliked Gene.

When Fiona brought Gene home for Thanksgiving, the ghost kicked up a fuss: footsteps, banging… Gene missed a step coming downstairs and fell on his face. He complained that he heard whispering at dinner. That night, Gene woke up screaming and left before dawn. Fiona cried.

Then, it was quiet for days. Judging from the accusatory texts Fiona received, the ghost had followed Gene home.

I hadn’t liked Gene either, or at least, I’d wanted my sister to myself. I might’ve told the ghost a few things before Thanksgiving. It was for the best.