101 Words

He shuffles into my office, bastardized uniform fluttering like banners heralding rebellion.

The silence marks a stand-off in the duel that started in the class—his territory. He’s not on home ground now.

“Do you think I like having to call you here today?” I wield rhetoric like a true hero.

Dissent oozes from every pore.

Dumb insolence is overrated.

“Well?” Bulging corpuscles turn my forehead puce.

“I think,” he licks his lips, “It’s time I taught you a lesson.”

Despite the tentativeness with which he speaks, the knife that drives the words home shows the strength of his conviction.

The Circus of macabre is back…yet I still remain.

I didn’t know when I awoke this morning that slumber still held you. Or, as I had my breakfast and busied myself about my day, you hadn’t eaten, haven’t stirred.

Painting my face with white pancake, affixing a bobbling tomato red nose just so, I draw teardrops at the corners of my eyes and trail them down my cheekbones. I will act as though you are not sleeping, even though my heart is broken as I draw bright red upon my lips. Macabre lays heavy, but the show must go on…

Looking out the car window, she watched a singing cardinal in a tree, mocking her. She tried to ignore the burning hum in her chest. She fucked up. If things went south tonight, like she knew it could in life, it would be game over. The thought jerked her out of her trance. Gripping the steering wheel, she looked at herself in the visor mirror. The guilt was overwhelming. Tears welled in her eyes. She will not cry. She did not get to be self-indulgent. Silent remorse was pain she deserved. Instead, she whispered, “Dear Jesus, please let her be okay”.

Her pyjama clad legs hung from atop the kitchen bench. Ugg boots tapped the wooden cupboards as they swung in beat to the music. She sipped on a fishbowl glass of red as she furiously recounted the excitement of her day. He chopped broccoli into florets as he listened to her nattering, the sound enough to dissipate the stress of his day. She paused to watch him, pushing her hand against her heart to make sure it hadn’t yet exploded. He noticed her hesitation and felt her gaze on his back. He turned. They locked eyes.

“Love me!”

“I love you.”

Wanted: Professional stalker. Day or night. Portabella Lane Agency: We travel where you travel. Revealing the world’s secrets since 1963.

Richelle stared at the flyer in her jittery hands. She wanted to ace this interview, become part of the greatest detective agency to ever walk—and stalk—the streets of Seattle. Her hands were slippery snakes, and she dried them, for the fifth time, on her ink black polyester pants.

Conservative but edgy. Was she dressed right? She wanted the Agency to know she meant business. She also wanted to hide her real motive: the intent to stalk her cheating husband.

Reasons to write a Blockbuster Novel

1. I like money
2. Chicks like writers
3. Chicks love rich writers

Supplies

• 6 cases/Energy Drink
• 5 cases/Ramen
• 3 cases/Mens Diapers

Day 1. Marathon begins: Novel’s too hard: considering Novella.

Day 2. Who needs money: exploring Short Story.

Day 3. Writers block: re-stocked supplies, researching Flash Fiction.

Day 4. Block worsens: reading ‘Writing for Brevity’, thinking Micro Fiction.

Day 5. Breakthrough: Wow!, words figuratively flying from fingertips… I’m obviously delusional.

Day 6. Word total 4: Title’s almost finished. Eyelids stuck in wide open position, yikes!

Day 7. Re-stocked supplies: added eye drops… It’s on!

“Darling, you know well I love every inch of you,” holding her whitish hand, “and I want nothing less than to spend the rest of my days with you.”

She sucks in her lower lip in childlike captivation.

I dip my right hand into my suit, hunkering on one knee. She gasps, glee erupting out of the well of her dimples.

Then my hand emerges with a cute little box.

“Sweetheart, would you promise to wear it always—especially this harmattan time?”

A vaseline container.

If looks could kill, I should summarily be cremated under the radiation of her fiery glare.