101 Words

Today, I farted in the grocery store. The girl standing next to me was so startled that she consequently dropped a jar of pickles. At that very moment, a child was walking by, slipped in the pickle juice, fell onto the broken glass and hit her head on the floor.

I just got back from the hospital. The child is in a coma and the doctor has very little hope. The child’s mom sat by the bed holding her hand, weeping, silently begging God to bring her child back.

All I could think was, “Silent but deadly!”. Is that fucked up?

I remember being hurriedly pushed toward the flying ship by panicked voices howling peril.  They spoke of a great heat inside me.

What was happening?

Somehow, it was too late.

Now, all around me is twisted metal, smoking wreckage.  I shudder.  Soot covers my hands and feet.  Away from me, the skyscrapers appear spotted and streaked.  Near there is only ruination and debris falling like paper rain.  Great buildings that stood here only moments ago are gone.  Here I am in the midst of it all.

I’m alone and lost and scared.

And, all the blast lines point to me.

The clock ticked faster within the caliginous infirmary. You knew you didn’t have much time. He laid in the bed, bandaged head to toe, unconscious. The tears that came to your eyes could not be held back. As you sat down beside him the scratches on your arms from the night before became visible. A tear hit the ground. The sound of sirens were then heard from outside. The clock kept ticking. Blessings were given; prayers were said. This was deserved; this was justice. The sound of footsteps arose; becoming faster and faster. You turned around as the door slid open.

Bill didn’t like Christmas.  He did not have any family so the day didn’t matter.  He walked passed a white church and he was surprised to see people walking in.  People still went, he shrugged.  Holiday Catholics that’s all he thought.   A thin man walked by.

Are you going in?  He asked.  No, Bill answered.  Christmas is good for the soul. He said.

No thanks, Bill replied.  We need volunteers to serve breakfast, can you help?

Bill’s mind raced, what was happening, he felt himself drawn to this person and suddenly he said “yes”.   At that moment Bill was transformed.

Jed buys dog food and candy. Outside the store, a girl digs in the dumpster.

Help an old man carry his groceries? He’ll pay, of course. She takes the bags in arms thinner than his. He tells her he rescues strays. Bathes them. Pets them. He points to the dog food. Feeds them.

Hunger gleams in her eyes like tears.

He doesn’t tell her how he slips them into cages. Teaches them tricks. Lets them grab a chocolate through the bars with their grubby little fingers.

Maybe she’d like to see his little zoo? She nods.

He smiles. They always do.

Eric was an artist so he noticed details. Like yellow poppies growing outside the window of the restaurant where he sat. And the bright green shampoo bottle sitting on a ledge inside a window — probably a shower — of the condominium next door.

When the slender blond sat at the table next to him, Eric noticed the far-away look in her blue eyes. The novel under her arm said she was there to eat and read. Period.

Eric recognized the book, one he’d read.

Next morning, Eric thought Sonya’s hair smelled so fresh after she’d used the shampoo in the green bottle.

Hector and Barney sat overlooking a dusty Southeast country lane one lazy summer afternoon. Soon, one of them noticed a small object.

“Hey, Barney, see that?”

“See what?”

“On the road there. Looks like a tiny lizard.”

“Ain’t no lizard,” Barney said, “It’s an insect.”

“I tell you it’s a lizard,” Hector said. “You’re getting old.”

“No I ain’t,” he said. And with a flap of his wings Barney swooped down, scooped up the skittering object in his beak and landed gracefully back on the telephone wire.

“Well, was it a lizard?”

“No,” mumbled Barney the blackbird, swallowing. “A roach. Yum.”