101 Words

Grace had stopped eating.

“That poor fish,” she’d say. That poor cow, that poor baby pig, that poor everything.

After Grace’s newfound sympathy, Mom started locking my door at night. I would hear stifled screams and loud thumps. “She’s just hormonal. It’s part of becoming a woman,” Mom would say on the other side of my door.

The night Mom forgot to set the locks I wandered into Grace’s room. A man laid unconscious, covered in blood, his severed hand between Grace’s teeth.

“That poor guy,” I said before quietly returning to my room. Thankfully, I still had three years left.

Tyler jumped onto his trusty horse and galloped up the street. Near the barber shop he stopped, dismounted, and drew his gun, looking carefully about. Zeke was hiding around here somewhere. Tyler touched his shiny marshal’s badge for assurance.

Zeke slunk from behind the barber shop and leered at Tyler. His nose twitched. He kicked some dirt. Tyler whirled and pointed his revolver.

“Yer under arrest fer horse thievin’, you dirty dog. Put up yer hands.”

Zeke charged at Tyler and lunged for his shoulders. He licked Tyler’s face.

The little cowboy smiled and scratched his best friend behind the ears.

I got the look again today. A girl two floors down who saw me when I went for the mail. That look. Eyebrow raised. Never mind them. They can’t appreciate beauty, or the time and effort I devoted to following my muse.

It’s here. The last specimen of Smallpox. They nearly killed it all, but I have it. A quick pop into the needle, a little prick, and into my collection it goes, where it’ll be safe. Forever.

Twenty-seven. That brings it to twenty-seven. I’m past contagion plus. I’m jacked up contagion cool.

Skin itches like a bitch, though.

Greta shook from a lack of food and water, exhausted. Her sack had few belongings, but her shoulder ached. She had been waiting in line for hours as the Germans ushered them along.

Ahead of her, an old man stumbled, and a German soldier struck him with his gun. No one spoke. They were too afraid; too frail.

Why does Adolf Hitler hate the Jewish? Greta wondered miserably.

As the soldier who’d struck the man with his gun shoved her into the packed train, he laughed. “Good riddance, Jew,” he sneered.

The door shut into darkness, and Greta realized their fate.

Tomas sat in front of his delicious repast: perfectly cooked rib-eye steak, garlic mashed potatoes, fresh green beans, and a glass of adequate Merlot.

He wrinkled his brow below his perfectly shaved head and tried to cut his meat with a plastic knife.

He had drunk a marvelous Cabernet that night, the night he put an end to his wife’s name-calling a little too thoroughly, his hands and the wine equally red. He barely remembered it.

He finished his meal, patted his lips, and sighed.

The warden stuck his head in the cell and asked, “Ready for your last walk, Tomas?”

If the carving wasn’t so fun, I’d skip it all and stay home. The pumpkins make me sweat. I have to surprise ’em, or else they are hard to carry.

~

I stare at their pretty costumes for a while. One wakes up and tries to run.

It is first. That pumpkin bites me several times, but I don’t let go until we are in the basement.

I start at the top. Have to slant the knife inward so the lid fits back right—by then they go into shock, so it makes it easy.

Eventually, they’re all smiling.

Time for candy.