101 Words

The old woman looked half-wild: drenched and muddied, but what intrigued me was the surprisingly dry umbrella in her hand. Strange. She turned and smiled at me as if she sensed what I was thinking.

“My son gifted it to me, before he died in the war.” A shadow fell over her eyes.

“This is the only memory I have of him. I’d rather get myself drenched than let it be ruined in a heavy rain like this.”

I nodded. Deep inside my bag lay a broken watch. I recalled a similar conversation with my son after his father passed.

The vast gray regolith is like a virgin canvas, ready for the artist. It has been preparing for this moment for a long time. Bearing the asteroid impacts and enduring the space radiations.

I take a moment to savor the serene landscape. Up in the dark sky, the blue marble gazes lovingly. Hoping for a masterpiece that the future generations will ultimately deliver.

Beyond, many more globes await. Cold and distant, hot and gassy. Patient for their turn in the colossal scheme of the things.

I descend slowly and put my left foot down. The land sighs. And the artwork begins.

The man in the boat heard the airplane before he saw it swooping down toward him. Yrroomm! It dipped and banked, dangerously close to the boat. It climbed, arced, and swooped again. Yrroomm!

The man could only watch, helpless against the mad pilot.

Psshh! The red twin-engine careened into the water, creating a wave that upended the boat and sent the man afloat, face down, bobbing away from his craft.

As if guided by the hand of God, the plane rose from the sea and climbed, its wake dousing a nearby duck.

“Okay, Aiden, time to get out of the tub.”

One person cut a scar, a vertical one, slashing straight down. Not on the skin where it’s visible, but inside, branded in the mind.

Others added additional scars, a horizontal line starting from the first, and another one below it following the same track—an F. Then, beside that, a vertical and a horizontal, the letter L.

So it went, for years, more letters forming, until the whole message emerged: FLY SOLO. STEER CLEAR OF SOCIETY, BE CAREFUL AROUND PEOPLE.

Should they ask why I do so, or criticize my solitude, I’ll point to the message and say: You wrote that.

The wide-winged albatross soared above steep cliffs overgrown with green grass and flowers in all the colors of the rainbow. His wings cast a shadow on the golden beach like a cloud across the sun. He searched for his beloved. Storms and poachers had made him late this year, but she was always waiting for him.

He passed feathery couples nestled together, keeping their chicks warm. The sight made him both fearful and expectant. Surely, she was here? Surely, she was safe?

There. She sat alone amidst the hustle and bustle, patiently waiting. Gorgeous as always. His treasure, his love.

Home.

I hadn’t thought it through when I’d said yes. I’d been thrilled. It was my mother who sat me down, knowing my terror of public speaking.

“If you’re sure,” she said, pushing forward a flyer offering group sessions for glossophobics, “then this might help.”

I joined. I was taught breathing strategies, how to deal with my fear and my shaking, methods for projecting my voice and keeping it steady. As I practiced, I questioned my decision a thousand times over.

The day came. I heard the lead in for my part, knew it was time.

Deep breaths. Clear voice.

“I do.”