101 Words

After her sister passed away, Doreen could not stand being alone in the house. They had lived together all their lives. The house was a constant reminder of this.

She started to frequent antique stores, hovering over boxes of old photographs. It was the pictures of men with stoic faces, standing tall in their neat attire that gave Doreen brief moments of elation.

She hung them in the hallway, replacing family portraits. Gave the men names and backgrounds. She stared at their faces and constructed first encounters. They were her former lovers of times that never existed, incapable of sad endings.

Four to five medical school students are huddled around a hospital bed. Every now and then their brilliant young teacher says a few words which cause a score of penciled notes to be recorded. Every sound and every absence of sound is interrogated. All of the student’s eyes are fixed on this resolute man. The very breath of the stillness in that room that night gave them Pause. No one speaks a word for they are all entirely given up to thought. With just a few plain words the teacher describes the problem and solution. Intellect has done its divining work.

She’s at it again. A torrent of social maneuvering, barely a perfunctory nod for her effort.

She’s boasting about this one: eleven years old, little tape recorder of Mummy’s affectation, pleading for more or less or different of something.

It’s trite, but not without its charm.

You could have pulled that off at eleven, not that anyone would have cared. It’s different now.

You’re different now, too. You possess a noble cruelty.

Maybe that’s not entirely good, but it comes with heightened self awareness. That’s what makes Mummy’s girls and their lapdogs mere phenomena compared to you, what makes you special.

A girl sticks a sandwich in my face.
‘Egg and watercress. Want it?’
Posh bread. Smells good.
‘My mum doesn’t believe in BLT. What does that even mean?’
Off she goes.
Next day, she hands me a brie and sun-dried tomato ciabatta.
‘Mum’s trying to be bloody Pret.’
She sits down.
‘You’re smelly.’
‘Oi.’
‘I’m allowed, I feed you.’
The nerve of her.
She peers into the cup.
‘It’s just coppers. That’s all you made today?’
I nod. Not true, I remove big coins. But I’ve got my mouth full.
‘I’ll tell Mum to double my lunch. She’ll be so pleased.’

* a UK fast food chain selling freshly made sandwiches (among other things)

Jim stood on unsteady legs at the altar of the silver trough. Despite an evening of beer and bourbon, his shy bladder was balking at the presence of the youth beside him. He waited, looking neither left nor right, until his company finished and turned. Liquid began to flow, but not from the soap dispenser or the tap. The whack of the door confirmed the youth’s unripe departure.

“Dirty little bastard,” Jim said.

He zipped up, checked his face in the mirror and considered his options. The cubicle was empty (green on the lock) so he left without washing his hands.

As Billy tore open the box, the words “beast setting” and “long-life battery” caught his eye. He was lazy so he skipped the instructions.

And being the lazy type, he lay down on the couch, mounting the fembot on top. He sure wasn’t gonna do the work.

Then the thing raged—AHHHHHH!

He squinted at the wrecked box on the floor, just inches away. Everything was a blur, but the thought of stopping his manhood from being grinded down was motivation to focus. He saw “emergency shutdown” and “nose”.

Billy stretched his fingers, trying to reach the bouncing nose.

He couldn’t.