101 Words

“The ticketholder seated in Row D, Seat 12 will compete in tonight’s Walker High Halftime Free Throw Giveaway!”

Valerie approached a referee. She couldn’t sit in that seat, but she’d bought that ticket.

The ref studied her ticket.

“We have our contestant. Let’s give her a big hand!”

Valerie positioned her wheelchair behind the free throw line.

“Two shots,” the referee said, handing her a ball. “Good luck.”

Valerie studied the hoop. Raising her arms, she launched the ball.

It sailed through the basket.

Gasps echoed through the gymnasium. Cheers followed.

Valerie smiled. Just like wheelchair basketball…maybe easier. No opponents here.

By Philip Scholz

Every morning they come. Without fail. Some mill outside the front door, others smudge the front window with drool and greasy fingerprints. They aren’t looking to buy; they simply bump and bustle each other on the sidewalk. Some stare at the rusting coffee pots. Others, at the moldy, abandoned cinnamon rolls or jelly and chocolate-sprinkled donuts stacked on the racks behind the registers. Many form queues as though they are waiting to be rung up. Why do they come? No one knows, but it doesn’t comfort Mary Anne when she passes the undead gathering outside Dunkin’ Donuts at seven every morning.

By Phil Temples

I accompanied Glen as he shuffled into the commons, where our patrons took their meals and played bingo. A minister provided a church service here on Sunday mornings. But for this occasion, a widescreen television sat on a table tethered to a laptop. Other patrons of the Sunset Retirement Home were already in chairs facing the screen.

“Why are we here?” Glen asked.

“To watch our friend’s wedding,” I replied. “We will watch the ceremony on television. It’s called zooming.”

“Who’s getting married?”

“Neil.”

“Who?”

“Neil!” I shouted.

Bewildered groans emerged from the patrons as they dropped to their knees.

By Steve Bailey

I got my first tattoo at forty. I had been thinking about it for over eight years.

My family’s reaction was exactly what I expected.

My mother asked, “What was the need for this? Was it a clean place? Were the needles disposable?”

My sister asked, “Is it some kind of mid-life crisis?”

My father just laughed.

I was filled with a deep sense of regret, the kind that comes out of nowhere and splashes all over you like a wave from a calm, blue sea. Eight years of worry for a passing critique when I could have been inked instead.

By Sharika Nair

Maggie asked, “Are you sure this is a good idea?” She lay Kyle’s blanket on the floor then placed him in the center on his back.

I knelt next to Buck and stroked his back. “He’s not that dog anymore.”

Buck watched Kyle with his good eye, the other cloudy with a vertical scar.

Maggie looked at him with her arms ready to snatch Kyle in an instant.

Buck sniffed and I let him go, still holding his leash. “Buck, gentle.” He paced the perimeter of the blanket, sniffing, before laying down on the edge and licking Kyle’s hand.

“Told you.”

By Martin Greening

Glancing at the time, beads of sweat formed on his forehead. Five minutes to finish this piece before the deadline.

With no internet at home, this coffee shop was the last resort. Ignoring the murmur of voices, clatter of dishes, and hissing of the espresso machine, he struggled to focus on every line, every word.

Concentrate! This rewrite had to be his best effort yet—or no grant. No money for next month’s rent, so back to working at the shoe store.

Final edit and ready to submit, the screen went dark.

He could already smell new leather and sweaty feet.

By Douglas Reid

The sounds have me up on my elbows.

Since the escape, whenever I awake to the wind shoving this creaky house, I smell smoke, hear the crackling replay of two-by-fours burning inside that southern wall where I never replaced the knob-and-tube wiring.

Again, I wonder if Grandpa Joe installed those wires and hand-carved the intricate designs on the bookshelves.

My urge is to locate Sparky, asleep at my feet, and dash from my bed. Then I recall I’m at my neighbor’s.

Nothing for me to do but settle back down, grieve, and hug my dog…all I could save that night.

By Bob Gielow