101 Words

He wanted to do standup. Open mic comedy. Celebrity impressions leavened with humor. Johnny Cash, Bullwinkle, Frankie Valli, Stallone—a few dozen.

But there was a problem. In a word, fear. Tension while adding his name to the performers’ list. The waiting. Sometimes hours of suffering.

First time up, couldn’t handle it. Left before they called his name. A no-no. Unaware of this policy.

Another place. Name called. Ran out.

“Can I get an opinion of a celebrity impression I’m working on?” Outside Walmart. 

Outdoor diners. Twelve in one fell swoop. Food courts. Bus terminals.

Now he teams with street musicians.

The couple lay in bed, snuggled together. They were too exhausted for rigorous activity.

“Did we forget anything?” the woman asked. Nothing could be overlooked.

“No,” her partner replied, his breath scented with celebratory wine. “Tomorrow, we’ll drive out to the woods and get rid of it.”

He ran a finger, still smelling like disinfectant after cleaning up the blood, down her cheek.

She smiled, calculating the estate’s value. Soon, she’d have everything she ever wanted.

Down in the garage, her husband lay decomposing in the trunk of his battered old car.

Someday, they would get rid of that eyesore, too.

He used to run up to me and clamp his little arms around the top of my leg. Squeeze my neck on his birthdays, at Christmas. Grapple me before I left after his bedtime stories.

As the years passed, our embraces only emerged in times of great celebration or in the bleak consequence of a close death. In them I would cling to him, selfishly rejoicing. Seizing our moment together.

Today, I will wrap my arms around him one final time, before they close the box, before I watch him depart from me, into the mouth of the cold December soil.

She tells her therapist she doesn’t believe he wants her as a client.

“That’s a projection,” he says, crossing his legs. “Focus on what you are feeling when you’re with me. What does your body feel?”

She feels vulnerable. She feels scared. Her throat tightens. Her foot bounces. She longs for him to tell her how she feels.

He says: “You can’t put the thermometer in my mouth to see how you’re doing.”

That’s when she sees it—the parade of people in her life, thermometers dangling from their lips like cigarettes: How am I? How am I? How am I?

Sirens pierced the tranquil night as prison guards found their bound and gagged colleague wearing only socks and underwear.

A searchlight illuminated the rope ladder hanging from the fence and the headcount was short one inmate. Notorious murderer Joe Kelleher was loose.

Standing in the prison yard, Joe watched everyone follow his decoys. He examined himself before proceeding. The stolen guard’s uniform was slightly too big and he’d tucked in the excess fabric. It looked believable.

Volunteering to help search, Joe strode through the prison’s front gate as everyone scrambled ahead to find him. Once on the other side, he grinned.

Each step taken brought our dream of reaching the summit closer. Unsure steps could bring about misfortune. We summoned courage to continue our ascent. Midway, we set up basecamp. Tim swore by our equipment, but it felt flimsy to me.

From the basecamp, we could only travel single file. We scrambled past a precarious ledge. Chad, sensing danger, suggested we turn back. Moments later, I lost my grip and tumbled into space. Adrenaline took over and I regained my sure footing.

We were young and carefree and nothing was more important than the cookie jar at the top of the cabinet.