Teddy Bear

I give to you a story in eleventy-one words...

He sits on the gray steps, stewing in his own psychotic filth. He wraps his arm around a headless teddy bear full of bedbugs. His gums smack, unimpeded by teeth that rotted years ago. The beggar spies a father and his little girl approaching. He sees the girl look over and commences with his plea, ‘Sir, can you please hep me out? Little girl, you wanna see a teddy bear?’ The father mouths, ‘Sorry’, to which the delinquent counters, ‘You no good crackers. I hope her head gets torn off like this here bear’s, little bitch.’ His rant devolves into gibberish as the girl steals a glance at the decapitated bear.

A Christmas Slug

It was a gift from my friend Steve Carls. He wanted me to cheer up, be less of a humbug. A recent breakup? A dead dog? Family and friends thousands of miles away? Fat chance, I told him. I’m not ungrateful, mind you. It was a nice gesture. A small, green weeping branch that smelled of pine, sported twin red baubles, and sat in a green plastic pot. I did follow the directions at first. Watered it at proper intervals with tepid water, kept it in indirect sunlight. That lasted a few days. Then work got busy. And there were obligatory holiday parties at which my sole purpose was to drink. In my countless December-induced drunken stupors, I’d stare blankly at bad sitcoms and avoid the sad stare of the wilting tree with its surrounding halo of brown needles.

Here I am on Christmas Eve. No festivities tonight. Just me and some well whiskey that I couldn’t afford. I’m watching a terrible remake of Miracle on 34th Street and wondering how this holiday can get any worse. After a few glasses – and interspersed shots – of the copper liquid, I snatch the green pot, spilling the arid earth amongst the brown needles that litter the ground. I strip the baubles and launch them across the room, where they shatter into hundreds of sharp pieces that will torture my bare feet for months. For whatever reason, I begin to laugh uncontrollably. Tears run down my cheeks. I take a sip of whiskey, spill some on my shirt. Then I have the ridiculous idea of pouring the remaining slug into the arid soil. It disappears. I pour another glass for myself. And another generous shot for the dead branch. The bad remake repeats. A cataract haze soon creeps over my eyes. After a final shot for the branch, I lose consciousness.

The bells of the adjacent church wake me at 10 am. On the television plays the original Miracle on 34th Street. In front of me there sit a small, green weeping branch with twin red baubles, an empty bottle of whiskey, and a postcard that reads, ‘Tis the season after all. Merry Christmas! S.C.’

Rain Is Wet

I give to you a story in eleventy-one words...

The young Asian woman eyed my umbrella. ‘Is it raining?’

‘Yes,’ I answered.

‘Maybe it isn’t now.’

‘Maybe,’ I admitted.

The elevator transported us to the lobby. We walked to the front doors.

‘Is it raining?’ she asked.

Sheets of rain pounded the glass.

‘Yes,’ I replied.

‘Can I have your umbrella?’

I considered my response. ‘What will I use?’

‘Nothing,’ she responded. ‘The rain won’t touch you.’

‘What?’

‘You will not get wet. With your umbrella, I will not get wet too.’ She smiled. ‘So I take?’

‘Here; I’ll try to find another.’

‘No need,’ she replied. She accepted the umbrella and disappeared into the rain.

I followed her outside.

The Italians

The young man strode with unmitigated purpose as his footfalls echoed across the cobblestone. The city at night soothed him with its worn brick and jutting metal. Summer had not yet weighted the air with its wet; spring lingered like an overzealous puppy.

A foreign exclamation split the night air like a gunshot. A shrill banshee voice retorted. The young man bound toward the noise hell bent on restoring broken silence. The bantering grew louder until there came into view two young men standing toe to toe, screaming garishly at each other in what he assumed to be Italian.

He galloped into the fray and moved between them with a dramatic thrust of his torso. They stared at him, vexed.

‘Please, gentlemen, there is no need to argue. I’m sure this can be settled diplomatically.’

The taller of the gentleman smiled with his dark features and scruffy face. ‘But we no argue, signore. We just having a talk.’

The young man hastened away into the darkness confused about whether he had helped or hindered the vociferous Italians.

The Italians continued with their cacophony.

Santa

‘Behave!’ she reprimanded her two boys for kicking each other beneath the table. They wound their faces tight and slumped in their respective chairs.

‘I’m bored,’ whined Michael.

‘You see your great grandmother once a year,’ she hissed through bad teeth.

At that moment, a white geriatric mob burst through the twin beige doors leading to the dining room. A fat, gray-bearded man in a red suit led their way.

‘Why is Santa here?’ Jonny asked perplexedly.

His mother hesitated, ‘Because the older you get, the longer you wait to get his gifts.’ She realized it was a terrible explanation.

‘Shouldn’t older people get them first?’ Michael asked.

She ignored the question and moved to escort her grandmother to the table for the holiday meal.

‘Hi Laura,’ her grandmother squawked as her teeth were jettisoned from her mouth.

‘My name’s Lisa,’ she whispered to no one in particular.

‘Oop, dem teef nebber shay,’ she smacked her lips unabashedly.

‘Michael and Jonathan, come give your Nana a kiss.’

The boys filed toward her. Michael succeeded in kissing her right cheek. But Nana turned as Jon closed his eyes and planted the kiss squarely on her lips. As soon as he turned away, he wiped his lips with his left sleeve.

‘How have you been, grandma?’ Lisa asked.

‘Eh, dying, but that’s good for me. I’ve been alive too long anyway. Oh, I have someone I want you to meet. I’m dating a younger man,’ she admitted with a grin. ‘He’s in his mid-seventies, I think. His birthday’s on the eighth.’ She cupped her hands and yelled, ‘Hey Santa!’

Everyone in the room except Santa turned to see from whence the godawful noise had come.

‘Hard of hearing,’ she pointed a thumb back at Santa. ‘Wish I could throw something at him, but I can’t throw like I used to.’ She harrumphed. ‘Michael, go get him.’

Michael obeyed and stalked over to the fat man. He tugged at the red suit.

Santa turned, and in a voice deeper than Michael expected, bellowed, ‘What can I do for you, little man? I hope I got you everything you needed for Christmas.’

Michael stared at Santa’s red, rosy cheeks.

Santa laughed.

‘My Nana says you’re her boyfriend.’

‘Did she now?’ he chuckled. ‘Let’s go see what the hot mama wants.’

Michael turned and raced to his mother’s side.

Santa extended his hand to the boys’ mother, ‘Nice to meet you, young lady.’

‘Such a charmer,’ Nana rasped. She almost lost her teeth again. ‘He’s a one man show, dancing, singing, gyrating all over God’s creation. I remember when they wouldn’t show that stuff on TV, but now they’ll show anything.’

Santa smiled wistfully.

‘Well, I haven’t even made proper introductions,’ Nana cawed. ‘Where are my manners?’ She paused to catch her breath – and teeth. ‘Of course, he ain’t Santa. He’s just helping out,’ she threw in for the boys.

Santa seemed a bit antsy. ‘No need to introduce me Ethel; I think Santa will do.’

‘Nonsense,’ Nana retorted. ‘Lisa, Michael, Jonathan, let me introduce you to Alvin Bressler.’

Santa smiled awkwardly.

Alan's Ring

I give to you a story in eleventy-one words...

‘She wants you, man,’ Alan exclaimed. As if on cue, our waitress returned with a tray holding three shots of an unknown amber liquid. Alan gestured to the empty bench; the attractive Latina sat. ‘Jameson,’ she responded to our curious glances. We bid each other good health and downed the drinks. ‘Do you have a story?’ Alan slurred. He gave me a sideways glance and winked. She nodded and told us of her recent trip to Miami. She had ventured unknowingly with a friend to a swinger’s party in Key West. When she left, Alan yelled, ‘Can you believe that? She wants you!’ I watched her glance back at Alan’s ring.

Two Boxes

I give to you a story in eleventy-one words...

He had seen them up close many years before. At the age of six he had thought them as big, tall boxes. The had made little impression.

He remembered them next from afar as he had trekked with his mother and father to school. They had given him comfort – he understood in retrospect – though he hadn’t known why.

He had seen them on the television in the common room. Gaping holes puffed smoke into the clear morning, mingling quietly with the clouds. In the blink of an eye, they fell.

He touched a few unknown names and looked into the pools. Big wet boxes, he thought. It is an appropriate tribute.

Behind the Door

I give to you a story in eleventy-one words...

They tugged on the door. Peter, the oldest, had his fat sausage fingers around the bottom of the handle. Paul felt his sweaty hands losing his grip on top of the handle. And John, the youngest, used his slender digits to maneuver the crowbar. They tried different angles, but nothing budged the wrought iron.

‘Hopeless,’ remarked Peter as he flopped upon the sidewalk.

‘A waste of time,’ mumbled Paul; he leaned against the wall.

John said nothing.

The duo moved to leave. ‘Are you coming?’

John shook his head. ‘I came to see.’

‘What if there’s nothing there?’

‘Then I will know there’s nothing there.’ He smiled at his two brothers.

A Cold Day

I give to you a story in eleventy-one words...

I crept toward the familiar row of houses, my worn running shoes crunching down upon the frosty grass. Walking close by were two friends; their laughter cut through the icy day reminding me of the jagged emptiness slicing through my own stomach. I knocked on the brown door and waited. After some movement, the door swung wide. My former friend glowered at me with red hazy eyes. I reached into my parka and pulled Of Mice and Men from my pocket. I extended the book with my right hand. He slapped it onto the cold concrete and slammed the door. I turned and traversed the frozen field. I didn’t look back.

Lugars and Doorbells

Three Word Wednesday: Dull, Race, Yawn

Fiction in 58: This story contains 58 words; it's invaluable for learning to convey a story concisely.

Two doors slammed; silence fell. She yawned and slipped into uneasy sleep. A Nazi pointed a lugar at her Jewish boyfriend. 'Your race is inferior,' he declared. Footsteps in the hallway woke her. The doorbell rang twelve times. She opened the door. A large man dressed as a woman stared at her with dull eyes. 'Sssorry,' he slurred.

The Corporate Ladder

He leapt from the stoop to avoid the puddle that had accumulated from the record rainfall. He could barely see before him in the pre-dawn glow. His right hand held a broken umbrella that just barely covered his bald head. His left hand held a shabby pleather briefcase, a tenth anniversary gift from his ex-wife. He landed awkwardly on his right foot and stumbled a across the narrow sidewalk. The bag dropped, but he held a death grip on the broken umbrella. He fell sideways and braced himself for the fall; he hadn’t seen the biker pedaling the wrong way down the one-way street.

Neither had the young blond haired man pedaling the bike seen the man stumble into the road because said young man was conferring with his boss about their respective fantasy football receiving corps. The biker laughed aloud when his boss explained that his starting receivers were Chad Ochocinco, Donald Driver, and Braylon Edwards. ‘You’d have had a great team five years ago,’ the young man quipped.

The young man glanced down for a moment and saw the man land brace for impact with his right hand. He possessed excellent reflexes having been an athlete all of his young life, but with the phone in his hand he could neither brake nor swerve effectively. He jerked the handlebar with his right hand and gripped the phone in his left. The front tire hit the fallen man and skidded sideways into the road. The young man’s fall was broken by the older man’s plump midsection; he rolled onto the wet sidewalk, soiling his white checkered polo shirt and his grey slacks.

‘Shit!’ He yelled. The young man scrambled to his feet. He still squeezed the Blackberry with his left hand. His boss’s voice called from the phone. ‘Hello? Hello?’ The young man lifted the phone to his ear, ‘Hello?’ He was out of breath.

‘Paul?

‘Yeah?’ The young man’s voice shook.

‘What the hell just happened?’

‘I don’t know. I was on my bike, and then there was this guy…’ His head immediately swiveled to the man lying on the curb. The bike extended into the road. There was neither foot nor vehicle traffic.

‘Paul?’

‘Shit,’ he huffed. ‘I hit some guy with my bike.’ He walked closer to the curb to pull his bike in from the road and to get a better look at the guy. He stood the bike up and surveyed it quickly. No significant damage. He kicked the kickstand into place and let it stand in the road. Then he turned to the man. He reached to touch the guy’s shoulder with his right hand but paused. In the dim light, he noticed blood in the street and a large gash in the back of the man’s head. He stood straight up and stepped back into the bike, which fell over into the car behind him.

‘Paul!’

He raised the phone to his ear. ‘I hit him, and he’s bleeding. He’s knocked out on the ground.’

‘Paul, calm down.’

‘What am I gonna do? I can’t just leave him there,’ he whined.

‘Okay. Here’s what you’re going to do, Paul.’ His boss spoke clearly and slowly. ‘You need to go back home and change. Then you need to get back here as soon as possible.’

‘What?’

‘Paul,’ he continued. ‘Today is our big chance. We’re presenting to Ron Stuart. And you know I can’t do it alone. I don’t know all the details that you do. ‘

‘But this guy is just lying here. I can’t just leave him,’ he repeated.

‘Paul, listen. If you call, you’ll have to stay. I can’t reschedule this meeting. This is the only time on his calendar. We’ve rescheduled it for almost a half year. So listen, go home, get changed, and get your ass back here pronto.’

‘Chuck, I know how important it is, but this guy’s out cold. You can cover. You’ll get the credit.’

Chuck had exaggerated just a bit. In fact, he didn’t have a clue what Paul did day to day. He relied on him almost exclusively. And though he wanted to take the call alone, he knew he’d sound like a fool. He considered his options.

‘Okay, Paul. I have an idea. Tell me where you are. I’ll call 9-1-1. Then you can get on your bike, go home, change, and get to the office asap. Sound like a plan to you?’

‘Umm.’ Paul considered it for a moment and then agreed.

‘Good. Now hang up the phone, get on your bike, and get going.’

Paul hung up the phone. The sky had lightened considerably. He heard traffic on adjacent streets. Paul picked up the bike. He glanced back at the still passed out man bleeding on the pavement. The pang of guilt made him feel nauseous. He considered staying. But he had also promised his boss that he would leave. And his boss had been cool up to that point, letting him take a paid half day once in a while and covering for him when he had made some junior mistakes. He got onto the bike and pedaled back home.

Back at the office, Chuck hung up on his side and laid the receiver down. He picked it up again to make the emergency call, but Maggie knocked on the office door and explained that Ron Stuart’s secretary had just called to reschedule the meeting. He slammed down the receiver. ‘You’re kidding me, right?’

‘You want me to reschedule?’

‘Yeah,’ he sighed. Maggie walked out of the room. He turned back to his monitor and saw an email from his manager requesting an explanation for a complaint from the Paris office. He set to work on a reply.