One Hundred:

ONE HUNDRED:

Peter

As far as Peter Ditton was concerned, a little sun was always a little sun too much, so he settled for whatever shade the STOP HERE sign granted. His fair features were burning already. Australian sunshine knew no mercy, and although clouds would come, the sky above remained a clear bowl of hot blue for now.

Peter shielded his eyes from the red cloud of dust stirred by a passing truck, the first vehicle to swish past in over an hour. He’d mistaken the weekly route for the weekend’s and had expected the 243 bus to Maitland earlier than this. Oh, well.

A notebook in hand. The spine cracked and a sliver of twine marking his page.

The plan: skip church, visit a friend, together go to a creative writing and poetry class at the Rotary club in town, and pour out their souls to the laughter of slot machines chewing pensions in the adjoining room. The room stank of beer and old paper. Sometimes the organizers provided tea. Nice in a way.

Embarrassment almost always overcame Peter as he stood before the group. I’m a joke to them because I’m only eighteen. On his last visit, the head mentor urged him to write something real. This time, Peter felt he’d done just that. Up to now, his poems concerned girls, echoing the rhythmic timing of pop ballads. Peter wrote to calm himself, and he found he needed calming after his mother finished with him. She was furious that he was missing another Sunday sermon, and as such, refused to drive him. And so, the pen scratched hard and fast that morning, words spilling onto the page.

He felt better afterwards, a little less like punching someone.

On the bus stop sign, someone had written the words “die aids breedin faggets”. He turned away, bothered, and fiddled with his notebook, the end of the scarlet twine like a cut in his palm. He couldn’t imagine why someone would choose to be homosexual—didn’t they know what they were condemning themselves to? He’d read that one out of every ten men was or had the possibility of being gay. If that were true, then the graffiti might be directed at someone he went to school with.

He experienced nightmares about AIDS. In one, a man whose flesh had been eaten away came for him. When he spoke, corn-kernel teeth fell from his mouth, clattering on the floor. The man put his palsied hand on Peter’s shoulder, and then he understood—He’s got the disease!

Awaking, he still felt that clammy touch.

Peter held the notebook so hard his fingertips turned milky. He cocked his head at the sound of crunching gravel, the shadow of a man mingling with his own.