101 Words

“A little dirt won’t hurt!” said Kerry plucking the pacifier from the floor and stuffed it back into whimpering little Gabriella’s mouth.

“Tell that to my wife!” joked Bailey, her neighbor gesturing to his shoes sodden with clods from the pig-pen of multinational bio-science corporation he had inspected that afternoon.

Kerry laughed.

“You can’t believe the things I hear; only this morning I received an anonymous tip-off purporting that some clown’s sows were being fed with fodder engineered from experiments flirting with alien DNA.”

***

When little Gabriella grew up, she bore a child which changed the face of human development.

The father grabbed his son’s attention away from his overbearing mother and said, “Go now before it gets too late and you miss her. If you let this young lady get away you’ll regret it for the rest your life. It makes no difference whether your mother will accept her or not. Here take this money and my credit card and get going now.”

The boy responded, “Dad, I don’t want your money only you’re blessing.”

The dad, somewhat choked up, replied, “My dear son you already had my admiration, my blessing is given to you freely and with much joy.”

We five sisters, with our accompanying husbands,  buried Grandma and returned with Grandpa for lunch. He poured a shot and passed the bottle. Saying L’Chaim he tossed it back.

Mildred, the oldest sister, picked up the large gaudy dish with the sucking candies and held it out to Grandpa who, without hesitation, pointed to me. Mildred couldn’t hide her jealousy. She gave me the dish and the look. I’ll now have to display this hideous ‘Made in China dish’. Grandma’s favorite gift from us; but selected by Mildred. It will be forever painful for all of us but for different reasons.

Flipping to page two of the Camden Daily News, Cadence froze. Her dead sister’s eyes flashed back at her. The headline below Melody’s high school senior picture and her killer’s mug shot screamed, “Convicted Murderer-Rapist Paroled.”

A droning of a thousand bees filled her head as Cadence read, “After serving 20 years of a 40-year sentence…”

It was supposed to be a life sentence. He confessed, “I don’t know why I killed that girl.” No remorse, just a technicality and three court appeals.

A stabbing pain pulsated behind her left eye. Inhaling deeply, Cadence decided it was time for hard justice.

“22, 22, 22…” Erect posture, clean-shaven face, well-manicured, nails and suited up in a spot-on pinstripe grey suit, nothing calls his sanity into question–except for the numbers he keeps muttering to himself like some mantra: “22, 22…”

When a curious and officious pedestrian challenges him he sidesteps but to no avail. A stalemate of sorts. Only that when the challenger persists, drawing closer, too dangerously close, three spontaneous holes adorn his back. No one in the park has to teach the others how to take flight.

The mutterer tucks the smoking gun away, buttons up and resumes count; “23, 23…”