101 Words

When Nelson awoke, he was in a hospital room. He had no memory of how he got there. There was an IV drip attached to his hand, but he felt no pain. On the wall opposite the bed, there was a mirror allowing him to look down the hallway outside. At the end of the hall there was a red sign. It read, “TIX3”. What could it mean? He had never seen such a sign. It must be a secret room for employees, hence the red color of the sign. He knew he would never discover the meaning of that sign.

As Padraig left the tavern, the snow blew sideways. His heart was full. His eyes were merry. But his legs were a bit unsteady, like two old trees tempting sleep. He pointed his nose in the direction of home. His boots coughed forward. The cold bit back. The street lost its shape in the falling snow.

And in an instant, he was on his back, a flipped snow covered turtle watching white angels dance above him. After some disorientation, some calculation, he heaved himself on his feet and continued home. Until, to his surprise, the tavern lights shone in his eyes.

Some say I am faster than a bullet. In this moment, I would tell those people to go fuck themselves.

I am The Fastest Man Alive, and yet I was not fast enough. She’s gone. I cannot outrun death.
I am The Fastest Man Alive, and I have never been more still in my entire life.
I am The Fastest Man Alive, and I have never seen anything more still in my entire life.
I cannot outrun violence, or sickness, or evil.
I cannot outrun death.

I am The Fastest Man Alive, and yet I couldn’t stop the bullet for her.

“You’re not happy,” Sam says.

I lie. I don’t want to hurt him. I chose to live with him in suburbia. I’ll get used to it.

“I’ve an idea. Let’s go to the cat shelter. We’ll find you a wild moggy to tame.”

I picture Samba and Luna, prowling about the ring. I never forgot how dangerous they were, but I thought of them as my kitties.

“I don’t think it’s a cat-friendly neighborhood.”

What I mean is, a cat could never replace my lions.

For someone who couldn’t run away from the circus fast enough, I miss it too much.

The call was clinically brief. I ripped Marlena’s picture and smacked the pieces down. She’d cored my heart with a dull knife. Why hadn’t I read the signs? The hints at marriage. The other guy from work. I shook my head. Falling in love was the problem. I’d ice my emotions. I’d cultivate a string of nubiles and extract pleasure like a flitting bumblebee. Women would be at my beck and call. I’d be in charge. I picked up the pieces of Marlena’s photograph. Her smile was like a mirror in sunlight. Shit. I wondered where I’d put the Scotch Tape.

Dearest Trevor,

The trifle in the fridge was never intended for you. I’m so sorry.

I know you couldn’t tell me the truth about your affair. I know who she is, but I forgive you. My lie would have been much worse, I’m actually thankful now I don’t have to conjure it. I found myself daydreaming at work about her, strangling her until she takes that last wretched breath. Poison, I thought. Nobody will know.

I made the trifle and added the devilish ingredient. It was never meant for you, only for her.

And now me.

Forever sorry,
Your devoted wife

Maple was born in a city park on a sunny spring day. She bloomed to become a symbol of pride. Throughout the summer of her life she contributed to growing the family business. Autumn came as she reached her full radiance.

On a windy October day as life floated away, she felt a sense of regret for not having made a lasting impression. Just before giving out her last breath, a figure picked her up exclaiming: “Check out this red one! It will be perfect for my collection.” Maple could now rest in peace; she would leave a legacy after all.