101 Words

The teenagers sat dejected beside a barren field.

“What’s up?” I asked.

“Farming looks so easy,” they said, “in the game. But why doesn’t the food grow?”

“You need to work the land,” I replied. “Plough, plant, water. As my parents did.” As I did, before the farm failed. “And it takes time, unlike in the game.”

“How long?”

“Spring to Autumn.”

“We can’t harvest it today?”

I shook my head, remembering the heartbreak of losing my home and business, after my parents died. “Not in real life, or I’d still be doing it.” I sighed.

We all walked away, dejected.

Dew worms bulge on the sidewalks. Long and veiny. Their musk permeates the spring air. Darlene thinks of her personal trainer.

She’s walking to the gym, trying to ignore the worms squashed by tots in oversized rain gear. She focuses on her morning workout. The floor exercises, recumbent bike, her trainer’s evident manhood. Darlene’s lost 10 pounds in 2 weeks.

During today’s routine, Darlene’s trainer advocates a carb-free diet. “No pasta,” he proposes. “Your lips have slurped their last noodle.”

Heading homeward, a chill wind blows. Plump redbreasts bounce about with worms dangling from their beaks, content with all things wiggly.

The guy in the hotel gym wants to be a boxer. Running on the treadmill, he flicks a flurry of jabs and hooks. Then he turns the speed up all the way and sprints, sprints, sprints. His booming strides terrify the other guests. That is, until he trips and falls and the runaway belt slams him into the wall a foot behind the machine, pinning him in the narrow walking space. He absorbs a massive beating. A woman hops off her stairmaster to help. Here’s this guy trying to be a boxer and he loses his first fight to a treadmill.

He knew I was crazy, not cute crazy, but certifiable.

He swapped his wife and kids for a wild ride with me and now—just as I warned him—I’m bored with the ride.

He blocks the doorway.

“Can we talk? Don’t leave.”

I  hide a hammer behind my back. It smashed the Eros sculpture he bought me for my birthday.

“Please?”

I drop to the couch, hammer in the back of my belt.

He sits next to me, clears his throat, and reaches to take my hand.

I reach for the hammer. The only sure way to end this ride.

“Have a cup of tea,” she’d say. The British magic bullet. Drown any sorrow with a good cuppa. Mend heartache. Cure sickness. Solve World Wars with a strong brew and a dunky biscuit.

My Mum; tea advocate. Averaging ten cups a day. Favourite cup. Favourite brand. Childhood memories of small cups of sweet milky tea. Bathtubs full brewed over a lifetime to share with family, friends, acquaintances old and new. And me.

And then she died.

We placed Yorkshire tea bags on her coffin instead of flowers. She’d have loved that.

A cuppa didn’t help that day.

I drink coffee now.

My friends all tell me I have no taste in men and here lies the proof.

I should be out on a Friday night, drinking and dancing with my mates, not digging in the middle of a forest.

It all started off so well. Going for long walks, holding hands and sharing secrets. Then it all changed. I wanted to play the field. I’m a normal sixteen year old girl so I’m not settling down with an older man of twenty one. So he had to go. At least, unlike me, he’s not alone. I’m burying him beside the other three.