Category: 100 Words

Day 46: Goodbye

In our ballet, my character Raymonda parts from her knight before he goes to war. We embrace one last time, then step away from each other, fingers finally sliding apart as he turns to exit the castle courtyard.

We’ve rehearsed a hundred times. Step-step-toe-reach, lean-and-lean-and-touch-and-part.

But today, I couldn’t let him go. On the other side of the gate was treachery, violence, death. I saw bloody swords, broken bodies, dead horses in the mud. He’d die, I was sure of it, and I grabbed his wrist, terrified. His eyes, no longer his own, knew.

“It’s alright,” he whispered, otherworldly, unafraid.

Day 45: Railroad

The train yard painting stands four feet by six, at least.

Listen here. It’s simple.
There’s a gravel railroad bed
a white clapboard shed (green vines creeping)
And three black fuel train cars
All under a pale sky with a corner storm.

We decided we need to have it, though
No wall in our home is big enough.

It will persuade
It will overtake
It will draw us through its signals
There will be a whistle and the slow whine of wheels
And we will be travelers, tic-tac-toeing,
Climbing the ladder ties, riding the spine
Through the wall, away, non-stop.

Day 43: Hillside

Tell your mom not to worry.
I’ll have you back by sundown.
It will be hot, but
I’ve got lemonade in the cooler,
And there’s a shady spot at the edge of the field.
We’ll take the tractor.
Put your hands on the wheel, and I’ll work the pedals.
It’s loud, I know, but I can still hear
The music of your throat,
The pulse in your palm against my hip.
Let me lift you over the mud puddles,
Boost you over the fence.
You can wear my hat, if you want.
I’ll take your handkerchief,
Secretly, from your pocket.

Day 42: Promised 3/?

We’re tucked in the corner of the dugout, the cooler between us. I could kiss him, we’re so close, but the team is on the other side of the fence. And there’s the fact that I promised him I’d never do that again.

Dumbass, I think to myself.

My fingers are about to freeze off from the ice I’ve been holding against his forehead. I pull it away to look at the bruise, now blooming an angry purple and blue.

“Gorgeous,” I say.

He doesn’t reply. Instead, with a half-smile, he traces the trail of water dripping down my arm.

Day 41: Sliding Doors

“Bob,” was a guy I dated in college. We made better friends than significant others. We chatted, partied, danced, tailgated. We fucked, drank, and fought. A lot.

Bob, according to Google, is now living in Los Angeles. He has the job of his dreams directing an entire media division for a large entertainment company (the one with the superheroes). When I learned this, I spent a few minutes considering the what ifs.

And I also considered: what if I’m right where I’m meant to be?

I gaze at my little family asleep on the couch, and feel nothing but relief.

Day 40: Laundry Day

Gladys looks forward to laundry day. She likes the fresh-startness of it, the sunny smell of detergent, the bag of clothespins clink-clunking against her hip as she walks to the clothesline.

She hums to herself as she fishes her secret happiness out of the hamper. It’s Tom’s blue button-up shirt, mixed in with the sheets and day-dresses. She pins it to the line by the shoulders, then runs her hand over the breast pocket, where he kept his peppermints. As she watches, the sleeves billow and fill with wind, rising as if to embrace her, coming alive with his ghost.

Day 39: Present

Your birthday is coming up.
I think you should get me something.
I think it should be an impossible gift.
I think you should get me a do-over
That’s years long and a whole state wide.
I think I won’t rest until you present it to me,
Negative space, pressed into a wrinkle in the
Space-time continuum, stretching out
All four of the dimensions, poised to
Erase and remake each unbidden memory.
I think it should be wrapped,
Not with newsprint or comics,
But airtight, so not one bit
Of the old way we were with one another
Can escape.

Day 38: Nape

Mark’s asleep, curled up on his side and snoring. Justin rolls over gently, so not to wake him, and because his limbs feel like lead and his head is pounding.

Fuck high school reunions, honestly. Fuck cheap hotel rooms with droopy mattresses. And fuck margaritas for the way they unearth shit no matter how deeply it’s buried.

Justin studies the back of Mark’s head, his brown curls glossy in the dawn light. His neck looks graceful, tender, and Justin wants to touch the dark, downy whorl under Mark’s ear. Fuck broken hearts, he thinks, burrowing deeper under the thin sheet.

Day 37: Birthday

My sweet baby, there should be no tears on your birthday. You should have only presents, smiles from your friends, and notes of love that remind you of everything wonderful growing another year older means.

I lean over you, holding your cold hand in mine, and your sobs break my heart. I feel your world-weariness, even as young as you are, heavy like a stone in your chest. Growing up means a driver’s permit, freedom, independence. It also means showing a face to the world that has swallowed its tears, at the head of its own table, licking the icing.

Day 36: Pulpit

When you asked for volunteers for the “Worship Leader” position,
The child inside my mind saw
The nun at the end of the hall,
Pale as chalk, lips like a bird’s beak,
Who called us “dearie” instead of learning our names.
The priest striding through the parking lot,
Black-clad and stalking his way into my bicycle dreams.
The child saw a rosary, fought over,
And a candy cane thief.
The child heard a voice without identity,
Habited, enraged,
Cutting down one who called them by name.
“Let me know if you can help.”
The child, watchful, lets the beads scatter.