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.
Thursday, October 27, 2011
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
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.
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.
Sunday, October 23, 2011
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.
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.
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