101 Words

A scent of Jasmine rose from the old lady in the ancient coat. On the conveyor belt beside her lay a packet of carved ham, milk, and four deluxe tins of cat food. With expert hands the teller scanned her items and said, “Ten ninety seven, please.”

The ten Euro note trembled in her fingers, as she stared into the depths of her empty purse. She began pushing the ham away when I slid a single coin to the teller. I saw shame in her face as she hurried away. There goes a woman who loves her cat more than life.

I still don’t know what pushed me to do it. Honestly, it’s not because of the drink; after two or three is when my head is most clear.

I remember picking up the hammer but at some point I must have blacked out.

When I came to and saw the aftermath—what I had done—it almost knocked me back out. It’s crazy to see someone you love just lying there motionless; it brings about a crazy calm.

It’s eerie.

In that moment, you start second guessing everything. And you’re still just…lost.

Like, I built that bed all by myself?!

‘Hop in.’

‘Thanks awfully for stopping. Thought I’d no hope. What a spiffing car!’

‘Too kind. Mind if we keep the top down, old chum?’

‘No, by all means. Isn’t this a Crossley Sports?’

‘Yes, the two litre.’

‘Not so many about now in these austere times.’

‘No…true. But I have found it difficult to give up this indulgence.’

‘It certainly has an impressive turn of speed. This reminds me—’

‘Yes?’

‘Wasn’t there a fatal collision involving one of these on this stretch about a year ago?’

‘I believe so.’

‘Absolute tragedy. Both occupants killed.”

‘Yes, awful, particularly for me.’

She likes to take pictures of the dead.

He rides with her to the cemetery. It’s just outside of town, nestled between jack pines and oaks.

Cemeteries creep him out.

“Over here,” she says.

He follows. Dead people. You can’t see them. They’re beneath the ground. Long since rotted, except recent burials.

It’s a gravestone with a photo mounted on it. A woman from another century. She aims the camera to take a picture of the picture.

He looks at the gravestone photo. Looks like her, he thinks. Then he hears something rustling in the brush.

I hate cemeteries, he thinks.

Ira stood tall, arched an aching back and surveyed his handiwork. Tired but satisfied, he dropped the spade and took another swig of whiskey. He’d earned it today.

He was known for his colossal cabbages at the annual show and had a cabinet full of shiny trophies, to show for it.

This year however, he knew the topic of conversation in the beer tent, would be his onions!

He hadn’t expected to bury his wife under them today. It never crossed his mind… until he hit her. It was unfortunate for both of them. She was dead and Ira couldn’t cook.