101 Words

It was a suitcase full of memories; photos upon photos left on a doorstep of a newspaper, locked away and forgotten for a decade. “What’s in the suitcase?” the reporter asked. “Pictures,” his editor said. “Who do they belong to?” “I don’t know.”  “Can I look at them?” he asked. The reporter picks up each picture, a thousand pictures. He sees memories through the eyes of a stranger, memories with no home. The reporter shuts the suitcase and walks out of the office. “Where are you going with them,” the editor asked. “I’m going to give them a home,” he said.

We hit a fork in the road after about ten miles. She looked up at me with a half-crescent smile but I pretended I didn’t notice. I just kept looking forward, as if I knew something important was coming my way. But it wasn’t; I knew that. I knew we’d probably make a wrong turn and be walking here for ten more miles. She ate the raspberries and licked her fingers and giggled. We’d been walking all day and all she could think about were her damn berries. Her hair smelled nice. Your hair smells nice, I told her. She knew.

Walking down that long and winding road on that cold, dark winter night, I heard a voice. Her voice. A voice like no other. The voice that lead me the right way. The voice that helped me through rough times. The voice of the woman whom was always there. That magical, mystical voice. Her voice was music to my ears. It never disappointed. The time we spent together was some of the best of my life. Oh, how I miss it. How I miss her. I would do anything to hold her once again, to hear her voice and be together.

The patient peered into my steady gaze searching. His whispered words, wrapped in rotten breath, carried the message, “The voices want me to kill you.” A split glass smile waited for me to respond.   “You don’t want to hurt me,” I said.  He tilted his head back like a Pez dispenser and laughed, then snapped his face back down hard and stared beyond my open palms at the closed door behind me. I shook my head watching as he tightened his right fist and drew his arm back.   Turns out he was the kind of guy who listened to the voices.

A couple, both teachers, built a house. They got two daughters. All seemed perfect.  The wife is unbelievably pretty.  She stays forever young. Not so her husband, he ages and has recurrent back problems.  This woman became restless, thus unfaithful.  She finds lovers,  sometimes several at the same time.  If one doesn’t obey her or fails to bring her to orgasm she dumps him mercilessly.  Dominate a man that is her nature.  Until one will understand her game. He’ll despise this sexual predator. She won’t swallow this humiliation.  Still beautiful, a loveless woman she’ll become, but hide her bitterness smiling hypocritically.

An old man was living on the banks of a beautiful river. His life was quiet, but his mind was restless.  A fairy felt that. She came to see him. Young and unearthly beautiful she was. He couldn’t believe she was interested in him.  They fell in love and met regularly. She let him make love to her. It was divine.  It lasted for two years, two wonderful years.  On the eve of that year’s summer solstice she told him she had to leave him. Someone else needed her now.  The man’s world collapsed.  He cried bitter tears in silent despair.

He extinguished the remains of his cigarette in what remained of his cherry danish. Lowering the Sunday paper, he saw a man standing at the door. The old man didn’t look like much; old hat, unshaven for months, dirty boots, and complete lack of personal hygiene and etiquette. What he said though changed the whole dynamics of that moment: “They’ve begun,” he murmured; before the man could finish saying even that he threw down his paper and ran to the window. “Are you positive? They weren’t expected for 2 weeks.” Nothing was said. Cries originated from the East. “God save us.”