Cabs whizzed past on sixth honking at one another with reckless abandon. I sipped whiskey from a white wine glass. No ice, just lapping liquid against crystal. Across the way were buildings of multivariate height, old brick factories remade into expensive spaces. I spied into empty offices with their fluorescent sheen, into apartments where holiday lights twinkled. Unexpected movement caught my eye in an apartment I knew all too well. The couple stood toe to toe miming angry insults. I reached for my phone, searched frantically for her number. A dial tone. I glanced up, saw her tremble, waiver, fall. The scream erupted from me, waking my wife from heavy slumber.
Saturday, December 15, 2012
The Couple
I give to you a story in eleventy-one words...
Cabs whizzed past on sixth honking at one another with reckless abandon. I sipped whiskey from a white wine glass. No ice, just lapping liquid against crystal. Across the way were buildings of multivariate height, old brick factories remade into expensive spaces. I spied into empty offices with their fluorescent sheen, into apartments where holiday lights twinkled. Unexpected movement caught my eye in an apartment I knew all too well. The couple stood toe to toe miming angry insults. I reached for my phone, searched frantically for her number. A dial tone. I glanced up, saw her tremble, waiver, fall. The scream erupted from me, waking my wife from heavy slumber.
Cabs whizzed past on sixth honking at one another with reckless abandon. I sipped whiskey from a white wine glass. No ice, just lapping liquid against crystal. Across the way were buildings of multivariate height, old brick factories remade into expensive spaces. I spied into empty offices with their fluorescent sheen, into apartments where holiday lights twinkled. Unexpected movement caught my eye in an apartment I knew all too well. The couple stood toe to toe miming angry insults. I reached for my phone, searched frantically for her number. A dial tone. I glanced up, saw her tremble, waiver, fall. The scream erupted from me, waking my wife from heavy slumber.
Wednesday, December 12, 2012
Restart
The hardest thing is not to start. It’s to restart. There’s
no longer that newness, just the dread that comes with thinking that you’ll
never be as good as you were. Or as good as you thought you were. It paralyzes,
pulls you back into its demon clutches, bludgeons you with stale French bread
until your eyes bleed.
Yet I must. Restart. It’s the only way not to sink into oblivion.
Picking myself up by the proverbial bootstraps. Forging ahead like Washington
on the Delaware. Fearlessly sallying forth into the world righting all wrongs.
No. Windmills would eat me alive.
It’s time, methinks, for whatever’s next. That’s nothing I
ever expected.
Saturday, November 3, 2012
Before and After
I give to you an experience in three times eleventy-one words...
I woke, showered, ate cereal. The office, closed. Precautionary, I thought. The apartment, powerless with no service. I had contingencies. I’d walk uptown and hunker down in one of the hundreds of coffee shops. This would pass in a blink of an eye, I thought.
I woke, showered, ate cereal. The office, closed. Precautionary, I thought. The apartment, powerless with no service. I had contingencies. I’d walk uptown and hunker down in one of the hundreds of coffee shops. This would pass in a blink of an eye, I thought.
I dressed, packed my bag, and began the trek. Past Houston.
No cars, lights. Past the park where trees lay strewn about. Up 6th,
a few passersby. I ventured further. No Starbucks, McDonalds, Dunkin Donuts. No
sounds of trains or planes or buses. Past 23rd, I got a signal, and
more texts than I could count. I had gone missing through no fault of my own.
Yes, I’m okay. I’m looking for somewhere to go to work. Are
you crazy, they asked. I didn’t think so. Other texts told of the flooded
tunnels, the 13-foot waves, the disaster-movie scenario of a submerged city. A
misty rain obscured my sight.
A smattering of power past 34th. Stranded
tourists trying to catch cabs off a closed island. Some open delis, bodegas, their
owners selling wares to the unprepared populace. They survived war and famine
to open their shops, a friend said; a hurricane won’t stop them.
I made it to 57th. The roads, closed, with cops
ambling about. I saw the crane swinging in the wind atop a building.
I traipsed about for the day surveying the damage, made my
way to a friend’s around dinner time to recharge my dying electronics. Please
stay, he offered. No, I want to be in my own bed. I departed after dark and walked
down 7th.
Below 34th, darkness descended. With rain covered
glasses, I barely made out some figures until they were upon me. I imagined
them to be zombies eying me angrily. I thought myself the proud idiot, murdered
early in a B movie; I walked faster.
Just before descending into the abyss below 23rd,
a friend texted me, now you know what it’s like to be there before and after.
Wednesday, September 12, 2012
Steps
I give to you an observation in eleventy-one words...
A short burst of air through pursed lips. He scrunches his down
syndrome doughboy face from the mild stink of ammonia.
‘Whew!’
A pause. His short, kielbasa legs take the first steps to
his promised land.
‘Ach…’
He bends, looks like a too full garment bag, fat on fat. Steps,
contemplates a second, thinks better of it.
‘Ugh.’
Headphones askew and trending toward the back of his cue
ball head. Another step; more trending.
‘Humph…’
He looks up, eyes a brunette belle, accidentally licks his
toothpick lips with cow tongue, stumble steps.
‘Ah!’
On the home stretch. Last step with his socked, sandaled pig
feet.
‘Zzzuh…’
Yet another successful stair climb.
Dulcet
I give to you a story in eleventy-one words... (For the entire story, please click on the 'Loose Grate' link below.)
They watched as the mighty being soared upward. From its beak
came a banshee wail. It turned, treaded air with short flapping bursts, stared
at them with sanguine eyes. Its beak opened again; instead of a wail there came
a dulcet voice, ‘I look forward to your visit.’ With that, the figure
disintegrated.
The thin one’s shoulders rose and fell as he breathed a
deep, regretful sigh.
‘Are you okay?’ asked the fat one.
The thin one shook his head. ‘Of course I’m not okay!’ He
whirled around, his stick raised. ‘All because of…’ But he didn’t finish;
instead he leapt to his left as the giant plummeted to the ground.
Wednesday, September 5, 2012
Serenity
Fat pink sausage fingers tap tap atop the touchpad. His chins have chins. Something about a Chinese phonebook. It’s a joke his uncle told him; he doesn’t laugh at it anymore.
He needs a job. Direct deposits into his vacuous no hassle checking account. Benefits to justify rebellious paunch reducing procrastination. A congratulatory doughnut to celebrate his good fortune.
Lukewarm sunlight reflects off the not insubstantial strip of pocked peach skin that marks the rift between his too short russet shirt. He thinks to move but considers the effort; he merely adjusts, lets the salacious sun have its way with him. Something else he can’t control. Another silent prayer for serenity.
He needs a job. Direct deposits into his vacuous no hassle checking account. Benefits to justify rebellious paunch reducing procrastination. A congratulatory doughnut to celebrate his good fortune.
Lukewarm sunlight reflects off the not insubstantial strip of pocked peach skin that marks the rift between his too short russet shirt. He thinks to move but considers the effort; he merely adjusts, lets the salacious sun have its way with him. Something else he can’t control. Another silent prayer for serenity.
Dead History
‘But history isn’t dead.’
‘No, it never is was will be. It’s when none of those exist.’
‘Philosophical mumbo jumbo.’
‘No, history isn’t dead.’
‘Then what is this?’
‘It’s just something else they haven’t named yet. Maybe they’ll call it post post modernism.’
‘Seems unoriginal.’
‘A tongue in cheek shout out to the post modern.’
‘Sounds more like 1984.’
‘A little of that too.’
‘I think it’s something else. A coming to terms with. A puss ridden silence spelling the end of a festering wound. A returning. A fed uppedness.’
‘Maybe. I wouldn’t count on it.’
‘I’m not. I’m just saying how it feels.’
‘I get it. Another beer?’
‘Of course.’
‘No, it never is was will be. It’s when none of those exist.’
‘Philosophical mumbo jumbo.’
‘No, history isn’t dead.’
‘Then what is this?’
‘It’s just something else they haven’t named yet. Maybe they’ll call it post post modernism.’
‘Seems unoriginal.’
‘A tongue in cheek shout out to the post modern.’
‘Sounds more like 1984.’
‘A little of that too.’
‘I think it’s something else. A coming to terms with. A puss ridden silence spelling the end of a festering wound. A returning. A fed uppedness.’
‘Maybe. I wouldn’t count on it.’
‘I’m not. I’m just saying how it feels.’
‘I get it. Another beer?’
‘Of course.’
Monday, August 27, 2012
Art Student
I give to you an observation at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in eleventy-one words...
The verdant student yearns to mark the page with lead, ink, blood. The teacher grins, his teeth like blinding blizzard snow. Not yet, he mouths, not yet. The fecund moment lingers in pencil potentiality as bastard children circle like birds of prey. The master nods. The young sinister hand responds, grasps the black rod between a trinity of fingers; they form a gentle vice that transforms the lifeless stick into a wand both sacred and profane. He lifts the pen erect, a composer who has heard the dulcet oboe. With eyes closed he lets fly the tip across the page, scrawling a segment of the base, stopping short of actualizing infinity.
Swooped
I give to you a story in eleventy-one words... (To read from the beginning, click on the 'Loose Grate' link below.)
‘Thank you,’ uttered the giant.
‘Put him down,’ the thin one responded bluntly.
The giant lowered the fat one to the ground.
‘And the stick?’
‘Stick?’
‘Yes, you picked up a stick. I want it back.’
‘I’m sorry. I don’t have your stick.’
The thin one unsheathed his stick and pointed it at the
giant’s shin. ‘Don’t test me.’
‘Wait, wait,’ the fat one cried. ‘There it is!’ He pointed a
few yards away.
The thin one glanced over to confirm. ‘Go get it,’ he
ordered the fat one.
But he wasn’t fast enough. In mere seconds, a golden figure
swooped from the sky and snatched the stick from the ground.
Wednesday, August 22, 2012
Beef Pork Fish
I give to you an experience in three times eleventy-one words...
‘Flushing? Like out towards Europe?’ I ask.
‘Flushing? Like out towards Europe?’ I ask.
‘Oh, stop. You’re coming to Flushing. I want dim sum.’
I board, ride across the river. He steps onto the train at
Sunnyside and grins at me. We banter.
‘I’m going to Flushing; you know it’s the home of the Mets,
right?’ I whisper conspiratorially.
He gives me a look.
We exit, find the restaurant. They’re still serving dim sum.
‘You know what you’re doing?’ I ask.
‘Yeah, just look for stuff you like.’
‘Stuff I like? I have no idea what it is.’
‘You’ll be fine. Just smile and point.’
‘Are you kidding? How are you going to order?’
‘By smiling and pointing…’
A woman pushes her cart lazily, smiles at us, keeps walking.
‘Aren’t they supposed to stop?’ I ask.
‘Hush.’
Another cart approaches. A woman with bad teeth begins
lifting trays off her cart with abandon, waiting for us to show interest.
‘Wait, what’s… wait… What’s that? No, that?’
‘You’ve obviously done this before,’ I quip.
‘What’s that?’ he points into the cart.
‘Beef pork.’
‘Beef or pork?’
‘Beef pork?’
‘Ok,’ he pauses. ‘And that?’
‘Fish.’
‘That’s fish?’
‘Beef fish.’ She thinks about it. ‘Beef pork fish.’
‘What!?’
‘Beef pork fish. You want?’
‘This is going splendidly,’ I interject.
He gives me another look.
‘You want?’
‘Yes, yes, give it to me.’
‘How’s your beef pork fish?’ I ask.
‘Not bad. Tastes like chicken.’
‘Nice.’
Another cart, another woman with slightly better teeth.
She points into the cart. ‘Yes?’
‘What is it?’
‘Hearse.’
‘Hearse?’
She nods.
‘What about that? Is that beef?’
‘Beef,’ she confirms.
‘Beef?’ he points to the same dish.
‘Beef Pork.’
‘Alright…’
‘And what was that again,’ I point to the first dish.
‘Hearse oof.’
‘Horse hoof?’
She nods. ‘Orse oof, you want?’
We look at each other.
‘Do you want it?’
‘I don’t know. Never had horse hoof.’
We start laughing. She grimaces, puts it down, scurries
along.
‘Horse hoof, it is…’ I blurt, tears streaming down my face.
Saturday, July 28, 2012
Feelings
I met him in the basement where countless dissertations
languished under piles of dead skin. He wooed me, kissed me lightly on the
cheek, accompanied me to my apartment. My bedroom door closed; we exorcised lingering
caution. We finished, satisfied. He requested money. Not for services rendered,
he said. But because he needed to get by. I wrote the check, convinced myself
of my noble deed. We parted.
He returned again. And again. We repeated the exercise.
After the fifth such encounter, I asked him if he felt anything for me. No, he
answered. He readied to leave. The towels I had lain atop the bed absorbed his
blood quite nicely.
Wednesday, July 11, 2012
Ten
I give to you a memory in eleventy-one words...
I woke at five; the sun shone in the big sky. My destiny lay with a half-packed sedan. I cracked a can of Ensure – care of my grandmother – and eased onto I-94. Billings, Bozeman, Butte buzzed by. There was a sign indicating Custer’s last stand. Poor dumb bastard. I checked the paper map to see my progress. Coeur d’Alene by two. A long and winding road. A pit stop for petrol and vittles. I hit George, Washington at five. The Mitsubishi climbed into the Cascades. Seattle at six. I found my way to Eighth and Olive, inserted a quarter, dialed. ‘Do you know where George Washington is?’
Ten years ago today.
I woke at five; the sun shone in the big sky. My destiny lay with a half-packed sedan. I cracked a can of Ensure – care of my grandmother – and eased onto I-94. Billings, Bozeman, Butte buzzed by. There was a sign indicating Custer’s last stand. Poor dumb bastard. I checked the paper map to see my progress. Coeur d’Alene by two. A long and winding road. A pit stop for petrol and vittles. I hit George, Washington at five. The Mitsubishi climbed into the Cascades. Seattle at six. I found my way to Eighth and Olive, inserted a quarter, dialed. ‘Do you know where George Washington is?’
Ten years ago today.
Sunday, July 8, 2012
Food Court
I give to you a story in eleventy-one times four words...
I meandered through Los Angeles’ Civic Center on a Saturday afternoon when suddenly the iced coffee I’d had set off familiar alarms. I instantly noticed that the area was a ghost town, its only inhabitants the less than fragrant vagrants talking to themselves upon any and all inhabitable surfaces.
I spied a faded orange sign that indicated a food court; flanking it were the familiar logos of subpar chain eateries. Food means bathrooms, I reasoned. I approached the entrance; a cop ascended the stairs with a ‘to go’ cup in his hand. We considered each other for a moment before I nodded. His unibrow furrowed; he lowered his head and passed.
I stole down the steps until I reached a vantage point where I could see the food court. Silence.
‘Must be popular on weekdays,’ I said to myself.
‘It is,’ answered a female voice.
The response startled me. I swiveled my head to see where the voice had originated, but I saw no one.
I turned to leave.
‘There’s a bathroom here.’
I stopped. ‘How do you know I need a bathroom?’
‘You’re skinny, so I know you aren’t here for the crappy food. And you don’t look stupid enough to think you’re going to find anything but food in a food court. So, you must be looking for a bathroom.’
‘Okay. Where is it?’
‘Come down, and I’ll show you.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Down here.’
I considered my options, felt my bladder throb, decided to descend further. I reached the lowest level; a map showed the layout of food court. It indicated that the restrooms were located on the upper level at the other end of the court.
‘Did you find it?’
I didn’t respond. Instead I began walking across the cracked cement.
‘You’re going the wrong way.’
I still didn’t reply. I walked to the map to reconfirm; it indicated that the restrooms were on the second level on the side of the court from which I had just come.
‘The maps are wrong. Why are you ignoring me?’
‘Who the hell are you?’ I demanded.
‘No need to get snippy, Justin.’
I paused, surveyed the court again. ‘How do you know my name?’
‘That’s not important. Don’t you still have to use the bathroom?’
I ignored the question. The food court remained empty.
‘Well, there’s no one around. I suppose you could just piss in the middle of the court; you wouldn’t be the first.’
I walked to and up the stairs.
‘Leaving so soon? Am I not an adequate host?’
I reached the top step. There stood the unibrowed officer. ‘And where do you think you’re going?’ he asked.
I meandered through Los Angeles’ Civic Center on a Saturday afternoon when suddenly the iced coffee I’d had set off familiar alarms. I instantly noticed that the area was a ghost town, its only inhabitants the less than fragrant vagrants talking to themselves upon any and all inhabitable surfaces.
I spied a faded orange sign that indicated a food court; flanking it were the familiar logos of subpar chain eateries. Food means bathrooms, I reasoned. I approached the entrance; a cop ascended the stairs with a ‘to go’ cup in his hand. We considered each other for a moment before I nodded. His unibrow furrowed; he lowered his head and passed.
I stole down the steps until I reached a vantage point where I could see the food court. Silence.
‘Must be popular on weekdays,’ I said to myself.
‘It is,’ answered a female voice.
The response startled me. I swiveled my head to see where the voice had originated, but I saw no one.
I turned to leave.
‘There’s a bathroom here.’
I stopped. ‘How do you know I need a bathroom?’
‘You’re skinny, so I know you aren’t here for the crappy food. And you don’t look stupid enough to think you’re going to find anything but food in a food court. So, you must be looking for a bathroom.’
‘Okay. Where is it?’
‘Come down, and I’ll show you.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Down here.’
I considered my options, felt my bladder throb, decided to descend further. I reached the lowest level; a map showed the layout of food court. It indicated that the restrooms were located on the upper level at the other end of the court.
‘Did you find it?’
I didn’t respond. Instead I began walking across the cracked cement.
‘You’re going the wrong way.’
I still didn’t reply. I walked to the map to reconfirm; it indicated that the restrooms were on the second level on the side of the court from which I had just come.
‘The maps are wrong. Why are you ignoring me?’
‘Who the hell are you?’ I demanded.
‘No need to get snippy, Justin.’
I paused, surveyed the court again. ‘How do you know my name?’
‘That’s not important. Don’t you still have to use the bathroom?’
I ignored the question. The food court remained empty.
‘Well, there’s no one around. I suppose you could just piss in the middle of the court; you wouldn’t be the first.’
I walked to and up the stairs.
‘Leaving so soon? Am I not an adequate host?’
I reached the top step. There stood the unibrowed officer. ‘And where do you think you’re going?’ he asked.
Monday, May 28, 2012
Grazed
I give to you a story in eleventy-one words... (Click on the 'Loose Grate' label to read the entire story)
The giant scooped up the fat one into his enormous hands as the beast launched from the ground. It opened its jaws much like an alligator and aimed for the fat one. But once it opened its jaws, it could no longer see the target, a minor evolutionary disadvantage for the otherwise deadly creature. The giant turned its back, shielding the fat one. The beast missed the intended target. But its transparent teeth grazed the giant’s arm, drawing blood. The beast landed on its feet, swiveled, readied to attack again. It made the motion to pounce but fell down dead instead. Beside the expired beast, the tall one sheathed his stick.
Wednesday, May 9, 2012
The Princess and the Sword
I give to you a story in double eleventy-one words…
The ground trembled.
‘An earthquake?’ asked one of the king’s advisors.
‘I think not,’ the king responded. ‘They are coming.’
‘How did they defeat your guard?’
‘My adversary wields Skofnung.’
‘Surely not.’
‘It is the only explanation.’ He glanced at his wary men. ‘Let it not dampen our spirits.’
‘But, how do we defend this keep my lord?’
The king responded, ‘We will find a way. Or we will die.’
The king’s old tutor, a senile waif of gaunt appearance, called meekly from the corner. ‘Sire?’
The advisors turned and considered the decrepit man. He stood, leaning on his staff.
‘Yes, Olev?’ inquired the king.
‘Your daughter must ride to battle.’
Silence engulfed the cavernous room. Each man stared at the ancient tutor.
A sound like thunder suddenly rumbled outside the keep. ‘They come closer,’ Olev said.
‘You dare endanger our princess?’ growled a young man who had recently joined the king’s council.
‘Do not tarry with fate, boy.’
‘Olev,’ responded the king. ‘You speak of my daughter.’
‘Yes, king, I do.’ He paused. ‘And of the legend.’
‘It is a child’s tale, Olev.’
‘Sire, the sword cannot be drawn in the presence of women.’
Fritha listened from a secret passage behind the throne. ‘I must ride for my people,’ she whispered.
The ground trembled.
‘An earthquake?’ asked one of the king’s advisors.
‘I think not,’ the king responded. ‘They are coming.’
‘How did they defeat your guard?’
‘My adversary wields Skofnung.’
‘Surely not.’
‘It is the only explanation.’ He glanced at his wary men. ‘Let it not dampen our spirits.’
‘But, how do we defend this keep my lord?’
The king responded, ‘We will find a way. Or we will die.’
The king’s old tutor, a senile waif of gaunt appearance, called meekly from the corner. ‘Sire?’
The advisors turned and considered the decrepit man. He stood, leaning on his staff.
‘Yes, Olev?’ inquired the king.
‘Your daughter must ride to battle.’
Silence engulfed the cavernous room. Each man stared at the ancient tutor.
A sound like thunder suddenly rumbled outside the keep. ‘They come closer,’ Olev said.
‘You dare endanger our princess?’ growled a young man who had recently joined the king’s council.
‘Do not tarry with fate, boy.’
‘Olev,’ responded the king. ‘You speak of my daughter.’
‘Yes, king, I do.’ He paused. ‘And of the legend.’
‘It is a child’s tale, Olev.’
‘Sire, the sword cannot be drawn in the presence of women.’
Fritha listened from a secret passage behind the throne. ‘I must ride for my people,’ she whispered.
Process Flow
I give to you an observation in eleventy-one words...
Her coifed faux strawberry hair bounced atop her head as she approached the ATM. She inserted a card, left it in the slot, waited. Nothing happened. She pulled it out, inserted it, left it. The machine indicated the card couldn’t be read. She tried another card. Inserted, waited… Extracted, inserted, waited... Same result. She moved to an adjacent machine, used the second card. Inserted. Waited… Extracted. Inserted. Waited... Same result again.
Her husband entered. ‘What’s the problem?’
‘It’s temperamental.’
‘Jesus Christ ,woman. We’re late.’ He stalked out.
Frustrated, she inserted the card, extracted it, then inserted it again. The machine requested her PIN.
‘Stupid machine,’ she grumbled.
‘Stupid people.’ I chuckled.
Her coifed faux strawberry hair bounced atop her head as she approached the ATM. She inserted a card, left it in the slot, waited. Nothing happened. She pulled it out, inserted it, left it. The machine indicated the card couldn’t be read. She tried another card. Inserted, waited… Extracted, inserted, waited... Same result. She moved to an adjacent machine, used the second card. Inserted. Waited… Extracted. Inserted. Waited... Same result again.
Her husband entered. ‘What’s the problem?’
‘It’s temperamental.’
‘Jesus Christ ,woman. We’re late.’ He stalked out.
Frustrated, she inserted the card, extracted it, then inserted it again. The machine requested her PIN.
‘Stupid machine,’ she grumbled.
‘Stupid people.’ I chuckled.
Monday, April 30, 2012
Plenum
I give to you a story in eleventy-one words...
On a clear day during the 473rd starcycle, Zakarin left the colony seeking rare and elusive artifacts.
Each day, he pursued the detritus of his forebears, and each day he returned to the colony with naught but a weather-worn face. His sister, Lorani, resentfully earned the family’s meager keep, sacrificing for an unrealized dream that both her father and brother dreamt.
Towards starfall – far from the outer reaches of the settlement barrier – Zakarin readied to leave when he happened upon an ancient emerald cylinder, long since devoid of liquid. In his excitement, he gripped the aluminum with his bare hand and, for the first time, experienced the spiritual sensation called plenum.
On a clear day during the 473rd starcycle, Zakarin left the colony seeking rare and elusive artifacts.
Each day, he pursued the detritus of his forebears, and each day he returned to the colony with naught but a weather-worn face. His sister, Lorani, resentfully earned the family’s meager keep, sacrificing for an unrealized dream that both her father and brother dreamt.
Towards starfall – far from the outer reaches of the settlement barrier – Zakarin readied to leave when he happened upon an ancient emerald cylinder, long since devoid of liquid. In his excitement, he gripped the aluminum with his bare hand and, for the first time, experienced the spiritual sensation called plenum.
Friday, April 27, 2012
Giant
I give to you a story in eleventy-one words...
They ran as fast as their diminutive legs could carry them. Behind them came a sound like chattering teeth followed by an ear-shattering squeal. From the bush exploded a sleek creature with azure fir. Scarlet eyes shone from its elongated face. Where ears should be, the creature had black jutting horns, one of which had been badly mauled.
‘Run!’ the thin one yelled. The fat one lagged. ‘It’s right behind you!’ He stopped, pulled out his stick and turned just in time to be flattened by his fat partner. The creature slowed, squealed. The creature’s transparent fangs magnified its orange innards as it prepared to pounce.
Then the giant stepped in.
They ran as fast as their diminutive legs could carry them. Behind them came a sound like chattering teeth followed by an ear-shattering squeal. From the bush exploded a sleek creature with azure fir. Scarlet eyes shone from its elongated face. Where ears should be, the creature had black jutting horns, one of which had been badly mauled.
‘Run!’ the thin one yelled. The fat one lagged. ‘It’s right behind you!’ He stopped, pulled out his stick and turned just in time to be flattened by his fat partner. The creature slowed, squealed. The creature’s transparent fangs magnified its orange innards as it prepared to pounce.
Then the giant stepped in.
Monday, April 23, 2012
Father Not
‘Eddie is not your father.’
His mother’s words hung like a beehive on a rotten branch.
He responded in the only way he knew how, ‘What the hell are you talking about?’
‘I’ve tried to find the right time to tell you.’
‘And you thought this was the best time?’
‘I know your brother just died.'
‘Really? I hadn’t noticed.’
She bowed her head, wiped away the tears. ‘Eddie is Brian’s father.’ She referred to her dead son as if he still lived.
‘Who’s mine?’
‘I don’t know.’
His mouth opened, closed, opened again. ‘You don’t know who my father is? Were you a slut?’
‘No, I was a virgin.’
His mother’s words hung like a beehive on a rotten branch.
He responded in the only way he knew how, ‘What the hell are you talking about?’
‘I’ve tried to find the right time to tell you.’
‘And you thought this was the best time?’
‘I know your brother just died.'
‘Really? I hadn’t noticed.’
She bowed her head, wiped away the tears. ‘Eddie is Brian’s father.’ She referred to her dead son as if he still lived.
‘Who’s mine?’
‘I don’t know.’
His mouth opened, closed, opened again. ‘You don’t know who my father is? Were you a slut?’
‘No, I was a virgin.’
Thursday, April 19, 2012
Raw Meat
I give to you a story in eleventy-one words...
He sank what teeth he had into the warm juicy flesh. Blood glistened on his ruddy skin. His sister played it perfectly, ran up behind him and hit him with her bag.
‘You’ve contaminated the meat, you idiot. You can’t just bite into raw meat with your condition.’
He loosened his grip on the carcass and bowed his head in shame.
‘I’m very sorry, sir. My brother has the gloam.’ She extended the raw meat in her hand.
The butcher backed away, white knuckling his knife. ‘Keep it.’
‘So nice of you,’ she bowed. ‘I am very sorry for the inconvenience.’
He grimaced.
They had secured enough food for their journey.
He sank what teeth he had into the warm juicy flesh. Blood glistened on his ruddy skin. His sister played it perfectly, ran up behind him and hit him with her bag.
‘You’ve contaminated the meat, you idiot. You can’t just bite into raw meat with your condition.’
He loosened his grip on the carcass and bowed his head in shame.
‘I’m very sorry, sir. My brother has the gloam.’ She extended the raw meat in her hand.
The butcher backed away, white knuckling his knife. ‘Keep it.’
‘So nice of you,’ she bowed. ‘I am very sorry for the inconvenience.’
He grimaced.
They had secured enough food for their journey.
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
Clutch
‘How is the first draft coming?’
‘It’s terrible.’
‘I don’t want to hear that.’
‘It’s the truth.’
Mark recited the Serenity Prayer to himself.
‘You’re running out of time.’
‘That is altogether true.’
‘I’ll fire you if you don’t write it.’
‘Is that a promise?’
‘I’m serious.’
‘Me too.’
Mark paced. Chris stared at the screen.
‘What do you need?’
‘You know what I need.’
‘I can’t locate it.’
‘Then I can’t write this.’
‘For God’s sake, it doesn’t give you special powers!’
‘Have I ever failed to get you what you want?’
‘No,’ Mark sulked
‘Then give it back to me.’
Mark reached into his pocket and clutched the ring.
‘It’s terrible.’
‘I don’t want to hear that.’
‘It’s the truth.’
Mark recited the Serenity Prayer to himself.
‘You’re running out of time.’
‘That is altogether true.’
‘I’ll fire you if you don’t write it.’
‘Is that a promise?’
‘I’m serious.’
‘Me too.’
Mark paced. Chris stared at the screen.
‘What do you need?’
‘You know what I need.’
‘I can’t locate it.’
‘Then I can’t write this.’
‘For God’s sake, it doesn’t give you special powers!’
‘Have I ever failed to get you what you want?’
‘No,’ Mark sulked
‘Then give it back to me.’
Mark reached into his pocket and clutched the ring.
Possession 2
I give to you a story in eleventy-one words...
Jeff finished his presentation and excused himself to make the call. Given such nice weather he went outside and walked to a secluded spot away from the building. He dialed the number his wife had provided.
‘Pat Wiles,’ the voice was raspier than he remembered.
‘Hey Pat, this is Jeff Chaput. Long time no chat.’
‘Jeff, how the hell are you?’
‘I can’t complain. I’m out in Texas giving a presentation.’
‘Yeah, you’re wife told me.’
There was an awkward pause.
‘She said I have something of yours?’
‘In a manner of speaking. You owe me.’
‘What?’
‘How soon you forget.’
‘No really, do I owe you money or something?’
‘Something.’
Jeff finished his presentation and excused himself to make the call. Given such nice weather he went outside and walked to a secluded spot away from the building. He dialed the number his wife had provided.
‘Pat Wiles,’ the voice was raspier than he remembered.
‘Hey Pat, this is Jeff Chaput. Long time no chat.’
‘Jeff, how the hell are you?’
‘I can’t complain. I’m out in Texas giving a presentation.’
‘Yeah, you’re wife told me.’
There was an awkward pause.
‘She said I have something of yours?’
‘In a manner of speaking. You owe me.’
‘What?’
‘How soon you forget.’
‘No really, do I owe you money or something?’
‘Something.’
Possession 1
I give to you a story in eleventy-one words...
Jeff woke and stared at the alarm clock. Squinting, he made out the bright red digits 5:45. He donned his glasses, sat upright; the hotel room came into focus. His hand reached for the worn frame. He kissed the glass twice, once each for his wife and son. He called home on his cell.
‘Good morning,’ his wife, Megan, chirped.
‘Hi honey.’
They traded small talk.
Just before they hung up, Megan said, ‘Oh, an old college buddy of yours called last night to see if you were here. Patrick…’
‘Wiles?’
‘Yeah, that’s him. He wants to stop by tonight to get something. He said you’d know what he’s talking about.’
Jeff woke and stared at the alarm clock. Squinting, he made out the bright red digits 5:45. He donned his glasses, sat upright; the hotel room came into focus. His hand reached for the worn frame. He kissed the glass twice, once each for his wife and son. He called home on his cell.
‘Good morning,’ his wife, Megan, chirped.
‘Hi honey.’
They traded small talk.
Just before they hung up, Megan said, ‘Oh, an old college buddy of yours called last night to see if you were here. Patrick…’
‘Wiles?’
‘Yeah, that’s him. He wants to stop by tonight to get something. He said you’d know what he’s talking about.’
Monday, April 9, 2012
The Path
I give to you a story in eleventy-one words...
The purple-orange waves lapped against the gray rock’s worn crevices. In twenty minutes the rising tide would consume the thin path leading back to the mainland.
He didn’t care; he preferred the dangerous simplicity of the wet, jagged limestone. His right hand leaned on a book he had read, a simple tale of love by a long-dead German author.
‘What happens now, I wonder?’ he inquired of the encompassing water and failing dusk. ‘Shall I make my home on this wind worn boulder?’
‘If you wish,’ came a voice between the wind. ‘But you don’t want that.’
‘What do I want, then?’
The ocean swallowed the last remnant of the path.
The purple-orange waves lapped against the gray rock’s worn crevices. In twenty minutes the rising tide would consume the thin path leading back to the mainland.
He didn’t care; he preferred the dangerous simplicity of the wet, jagged limestone. His right hand leaned on a book he had read, a simple tale of love by a long-dead German author.
‘What happens now, I wonder?’ he inquired of the encompassing water and failing dusk. ‘Shall I make my home on this wind worn boulder?’
‘If you wish,’ came a voice between the wind. ‘But you don’t want that.’
‘What do I want, then?’
The ocean swallowed the last remnant of the path.
Tuesday, April 3, 2012
Shell
Paul’s ancient eyes looked down from the green sloping hill upon the shell of what had been a Catholic Church. It had long since fallen into disrepair; its bricks lay smashed and broken in the remains of what had been a parking lot.
Paul recalled attending mass there with his grandparents. Receiving the wafer with his right hand cradling his left. Lifting the gold plated cup to his lips and sipping. Father Durant used to put his massive arm around his shoulder and talk to him about his plans to be a baseball player or pilot.
Paul felt the nostalgia but no regret. Good riddance, he thought. What good were you?
Paul recalled attending mass there with his grandparents. Receiving the wafer with his right hand cradling his left. Lifting the gold plated cup to his lips and sipping. Father Durant used to put his massive arm around his shoulder and talk to him about his plans to be a baseball player or pilot.
Paul felt the nostalgia but no regret. Good riddance, he thought. What good were you?
Monday, April 2, 2012
Rustling
‘It isn’t moving.’
‘I know.’
‘But you said we’d follow…’
‘I know what I said,’ he hissed.
The giant twisted its head, glanced in their direction.
They froze.
The giant looked away.
The thin one backhanded his companion.
‘Why’d you do that?’
‘For making me yell at you.’
‘Huh?’ was all he could muster.
They turned back to the road. The giant had vanished.
‘Now you’ve done it.’
‘What?’
‘He’s gone.’
‘Who?’
‘The giant!’
‘Oh.’
‘And that means the stick!’
‘Oh no.’
They both heard a familiar rustle. Without both sticks, there was only one thing they could do.
‘Run!!’ the thin one screamed.
But he knew there was no escape.
‘I know.’
‘But you said we’d follow…’
‘I know what I said,’ he hissed.
The giant twisted its head, glanced in their direction.
They froze.
The giant looked away.
The thin one backhanded his companion.
‘Why’d you do that?’
‘For making me yell at you.’
‘Huh?’ was all he could muster.
They turned back to the road. The giant had vanished.
‘Now you’ve done it.’
‘What?’
‘He’s gone.’
‘Who?’
‘The giant!’
‘Oh.’
‘And that means the stick!’
‘Oh no.’
They both heard a familiar rustle. Without both sticks, there was only one thing they could do.
‘Run!!’ the thin one screamed.
But he knew there was no escape.
Monday, March 26, 2012
Martyr
I give to you a story in eleventy-one words...
‘George, they’re coming.’
‘Let them come.’
‘You damn fool. They’ll kill you this time.’
‘What do I care?’
‘Others care!’
‘I’m a better martyr than a man.’
His words paralyzed her.
He smiled at her with his crooked yellow teeth. ‘It’s time for someone else to prove his mettle.’
‘And if there’s no one who does?’
‘Then we all deserve to die, the whole lot of us. ‘
‘Are you really not going to leave?’
‘No. I’m not.’
‘But you know they won’t let you be a martyr.’
‘Do you believe their rumors?’
‘Of course not.’
‘What if they’re true?’
‘What?’
A knock came at the door.
‘They’re here,’ George said.
‘George, they’re coming.’
‘Let them come.’
‘You damn fool. They’ll kill you this time.’
‘What do I care?’
‘Others care!’
‘I’m a better martyr than a man.’
His words paralyzed her.
He smiled at her with his crooked yellow teeth. ‘It’s time for someone else to prove his mettle.’
‘And if there’s no one who does?’
‘Then we all deserve to die, the whole lot of us. ‘
‘Are you really not going to leave?’
‘No. I’m not.’
‘But you know they won’t let you be a martyr.’
‘Do you believe their rumors?’
‘Of course not.’
‘What if they’re true?’
‘What?’
A knock came at the door.
‘They’re here,’ George said.
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
Fluxing
I give to you a story in eleventy-one words...
‘Scott, what the hell are you doing?’
‘I’m going for it.’
‘This has gone too far.’
‘I’m no amateur, Joshua. I have been diligent in my studies of time travel. This can work.’
‘No, it can’t. You’re using a Toyota.’
‘Actually, it’s a 1984 Toyota Celica. I have nurtured it.’
‘The hatchback’s rusted.’
Scott ignored him.
‘What about the nuclear reaction?’
‘Taken care of.’
‘What?! I’m not even going to ask.’
‘Good.’ Scott strapped himself in, started the car, accelerated.
From a distance, Josh watched as lightning encircled the car; then came the enormous explosion. When he arrived at the blast site, Josh saw a gaping crater but no debris whatsoever.
‘Scott, what the hell are you doing?’
‘I’m going for it.’
‘This has gone too far.’
‘I’m no amateur, Joshua. I have been diligent in my studies of time travel. This can work.’
‘No, it can’t. You’re using a Toyota.’
‘Actually, it’s a 1984 Toyota Celica. I have nurtured it.’
‘The hatchback’s rusted.’
Scott ignored him.
‘What about the nuclear reaction?’
‘Taken care of.’
‘What?! I’m not even going to ask.’
‘Good.’ Scott strapped himself in, started the car, accelerated.
From a distance, Josh watched as lightning encircled the car; then came the enormous explosion. When he arrived at the blast site, Josh saw a gaping crater but no debris whatsoever.
Friday, March 16, 2012
Sticks
I give to you a story in eleventy-one words...
‘What is it?’
‘How should I know?’
They poked at it with small sticks.
‘Is it alive?’
‘How can we tell?’
They jabbed harder, mostly at its legs and arms.
‘We can’t just leave it.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s blocking the road.’
‘So? Let it be someone else’s problem.’
The fat one stuck the stick in its ear. It flinched, causing the two to dart behind a tree.
‘What did you do?’ the thin one hissed.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Where’s your…’
‘I dropped it.’
‘You what!?’
They glanced back and watched as it sat up. It held the stick.
‘What do I do?’
The thin one stared at it. ‘We follow it.’
‘What is it?’
‘How should I know?’
They poked at it with small sticks.
‘Is it alive?’
‘How can we tell?’
They jabbed harder, mostly at its legs and arms.
‘We can’t just leave it.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s blocking the road.’
‘So? Let it be someone else’s problem.’
The fat one stuck the stick in its ear. It flinched, causing the two to dart behind a tree.
‘What did you do?’ the thin one hissed.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Where’s your…’
‘I dropped it.’
‘You what!?’
They glanced back and watched as it sat up. It held the stick.
‘What do I do?’
The thin one stared at it. ‘We follow it.’
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
Strands
I give to you an observation in eleventy-one words...
It hung like a tiny suspended waterfall and glistened in the fluorescent subway glow. The white, gray, and black threads intermingled forming a monochromatic yarn durable enough for the assembly of heavy rope and yet soft enough for the creation of an afghan that would coddle a newborn. A single string could anchor a Snoopy float, haul in a marlin, lasso a bull. It could be used to string a bow that would yield a magnificent sound upon an aged Stradivarius. It could be tailored into a plush garment that would vex many a conservative Catholic. And yet all I could think at the time was, please sir, shave your mole…
It hung like a tiny suspended waterfall and glistened in the fluorescent subway glow. The white, gray, and black threads intermingled forming a monochromatic yarn durable enough for the assembly of heavy rope and yet soft enough for the creation of an afghan that would coddle a newborn. A single string could anchor a Snoopy float, haul in a marlin, lasso a bull. It could be used to string a bow that would yield a magnificent sound upon an aged Stradivarius. It could be tailored into a plush garment that would vex many a conservative Catholic. And yet all I could think at the time was, please sir, shave your mole…
Monday, March 12, 2012
Reintegration
I give to you a story in eleventy-one words... (Please note that this is a continuation of the story posted on March 6th.)
Reintegration is a tricky business. If not disintegrated expertly, transformations can range from horrific to comical. Still, it is better to be disintegrated by a kindhearted buffoon than a malicious disintegrator since the latter can scramble innards like a whisk can eggs.
An expert can, of course, control all aspects of the process from the first to the last molecule; those old enchantresses can make the process an absolute pleasure or a stark lesson in pain no matter their moral leanings.
For him who fell through that loose grate, the process proved downright agonizing. After all, it’s unwise to lose patience with any Integrator never mind one as powerful as she.
Reintegration is a tricky business. If not disintegrated expertly, transformations can range from horrific to comical. Still, it is better to be disintegrated by a kindhearted buffoon than a malicious disintegrator since the latter can scramble innards like a whisk can eggs.
An expert can, of course, control all aspects of the process from the first to the last molecule; those old enchantresses can make the process an absolute pleasure or a stark lesson in pain no matter their moral leanings.
For him who fell through that loose grate, the process proved downright agonizing. After all, it’s unwise to lose patience with any Integrator never mind one as powerful as she.
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
Loose Grate
I give to you a story in eleventy-one words...
‘I stepped onto a loose grate.’
‘A great what?’
‘No, a grate. A metal criss-cross thing on the sidewalk.’
She peered at him with her bulging indigo eyes. ‘I see.’
He felt his patience waning. ‘For the last time, can you help me?’
‘With what?’
‘With getting home!‘ he retorted angrily.
‘Beware your hastiness,’ she hissed. Her eyes transformed to an iridescent yellow.
He breathed.
Her eyes reverted to indigo. ‘This much is certain; you cannot return whence you came.’
‘So, what do I do?’
‘What we all must do to find our way home,’ she whispered. With that she closed her eyes, touched his hand, and watched as he disintegrated.
‘I stepped onto a loose grate.’
‘A great what?’
‘No, a grate. A metal criss-cross thing on the sidewalk.’
She peered at him with her bulging indigo eyes. ‘I see.’
He felt his patience waning. ‘For the last time, can you help me?’
‘With what?’
‘With getting home!‘ he retorted angrily.
‘Beware your hastiness,’ she hissed. Her eyes transformed to an iridescent yellow.
He breathed.
Her eyes reverted to indigo. ‘This much is certain; you cannot return whence you came.’
‘So, what do I do?’
‘What we all must do to find our way home,’ she whispered. With that she closed her eyes, touched his hand, and watched as he disintegrated.
Monday, February 27, 2012
Like Last Time
I give to you a story in eleventy-one words...
‘I said I would come.’
‘You said that last time.’
He gritted his teeth. ‘I said I’ll be there.’
‘You’ll probably want to take the 5:30…’
‘I know how to get home,’ Larry growled. ‘I gotta go.’ He hung up.
Melissa and Larry watched as Chuck shut his door and departed for the evening.
‘Can you believe him?’ Melissa barked. ‘I’m here till 10 every night, and he waltzes out at 5:30.’
‘Yeah, I know,’ Larry responded.
‘What time are you leaving?’
‘6.’
‘Oh, so now you’re slacking,’ she mocked.
He chuckled uncomfortably. ‘You know me.’
He guiltily sat in his office until 6 and missed most of his son’s game.
‘I said I would come.’
‘You said that last time.’
He gritted his teeth. ‘I said I’ll be there.’
‘You’ll probably want to take the 5:30…’
‘I know how to get home,’ Larry growled. ‘I gotta go.’ He hung up.
Melissa and Larry watched as Chuck shut his door and departed for the evening.
‘Can you believe him?’ Melissa barked. ‘I’m here till 10 every night, and he waltzes out at 5:30.’
‘Yeah, I know,’ Larry responded.
‘What time are you leaving?’
‘6.’
‘Oh, so now you’re slacking,’ she mocked.
He chuckled uncomfortably. ‘You know me.’
He guiltily sat in his office until 6 and missed most of his son’s game.
Friday, February 24, 2012
Bouquet
I give to you a story in eleventy-one words...
Bill coddled the bouquet in his right arm. He considered saying ‘You’re my density’ to pay homage to their favorite movie but decided instead on the always effective ‘I love you.’ He walked into the east entrance of the park knowing that Molly would be facing west, engrossed in a novel. As he approached, he spied, among others, a man standing by Molly. In the man’s arms were flowers arranged very similarly to those in Bill’s. And the man’s clothing matched Bill’s exactly. Bill started to jog. Molly turned. The man extracted a gun, shot Molly, and inexplicably disappeared. The surrounding crowd, perplexed, stared at Bill, who felt paralysis overtake him.
Bill coddled the bouquet in his right arm. He considered saying ‘You’re my density’ to pay homage to their favorite movie but decided instead on the always effective ‘I love you.’ He walked into the east entrance of the park knowing that Molly would be facing west, engrossed in a novel. As he approached, he spied, among others, a man standing by Molly. In the man’s arms were flowers arranged very similarly to those in Bill’s. And the man’s clothing matched Bill’s exactly. Bill started to jog. Molly turned. The man extracted a gun, shot Molly, and inexplicably disappeared. The surrounding crowd, perplexed, stared at Bill, who felt paralysis overtake him.
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
Takeout
I give to you a story in eleventy-one words...
A busy signal.
He slammed down the receiver, picked it up, dialed another number. Voicemail.
He listened into his cell. ‘Hello? Hello!?’ He heard muffled coughing.
He searched the junk drawer, tossed the takeout menus aside, found his mother’s address book, called his old neighbor’s numbers at random. No answers.
‘Hold on!’ he yelled into the cell. And then, ‘Why the hell did you move?’ to himself.
He paused, thought, dialed.
‘Takeout or delivery?’
‘Do you have a cell phone?’
‘What?’
‘I’m Ron. I’m on the phone with my father. I think he had a heart attack. He lives at 204 South Main. Please call 911. Just say what I say.’
A busy signal.
He slammed down the receiver, picked it up, dialed another number. Voicemail.
He listened into his cell. ‘Hello? Hello!?’ He heard muffled coughing.
He searched the junk drawer, tossed the takeout menus aside, found his mother’s address book, called his old neighbor’s numbers at random. No answers.
‘Hold on!’ he yelled into the cell. And then, ‘Why the hell did you move?’ to himself.
He paused, thought, dialed.
‘Takeout or delivery?’
‘Do you have a cell phone?’
‘What?’
‘I’m Ron. I’m on the phone with my father. I think he had a heart attack. He lives at 204 South Main. Please call 911. Just say what I say.’
Friday, February 17, 2012
Missed Connection
I give to you a Missed Connection in eleventy-one words...
I met you last Friday at a bar. You were surrounded by friends, drinking cheap wine. We made eye contact. You came over to chat. We talked about Glee and Marx and how we both hate those people who walk and text in busy intersections. I suggested we grab a meal, but your friends stole you away to go to that birthday party for your mortal frenemy.
I thought about you a lot over the weekend; I even went into the bar to see if you’d come back. I did see your friend; she started crying when she told me what you did.
I guess this really is a missed connection.
I met you last Friday at a bar. You were surrounded by friends, drinking cheap wine. We made eye contact. You came over to chat. We talked about Glee and Marx and how we both hate those people who walk and text in busy intersections. I suggested we grab a meal, but your friends stole you away to go to that birthday party for your mortal frenemy.
I thought about you a lot over the weekend; I even went into the bar to see if you’d come back. I did see your friend; she started crying when she told me what you did.
I guess this really is a missed connection.
Saturday, February 4, 2012
Waves
I give to you a story in eleventy-one words...
The ice jangled in the amber liquid. He let fly a belly laugh at some expertly told joke. I approached unseen, caught him by surprise. Hello, I humbly offered. Albert, how are you? Well, sir, and you? No complaints. How goes the singing career? I could hear both admiration and condescension in his tone. Well enough as long as I have a day job. He chuckled at the quip. I once had aspirations, he stared into the whisky. To be a surfer if you can believe it; the waves. He paused. But no matter, I’d rather be managing director over riding waves any day, he laughed. I didn’t quite believe him.
The ice jangled in the amber liquid. He let fly a belly laugh at some expertly told joke. I approached unseen, caught him by surprise. Hello, I humbly offered. Albert, how are you? Well, sir, and you? No complaints. How goes the singing career? I could hear both admiration and condescension in his tone. Well enough as long as I have a day job. He chuckled at the quip. I once had aspirations, he stared into the whisky. To be a surfer if you can believe it; the waves. He paused. But no matter, I’d rather be managing director over riding waves any day, he laughed. I didn’t quite believe him.
Sunday, January 22, 2012
Saviors
I give to you a story in eleventy-one words...
Gina heard her mother’s scream. ‘It worked; he’s gone. Good riddance.’ The autopsy revealed cyanide. When they questioned her, she didn’t deny it. She made but one request, a comparison of her blood to her parents’.
The test revealed that she was not their daughter. The authorities questioned the mother, who told them Gina had been adopted. When asked about the paperwork, the mother admitted there hadn’t been any. ‘But we love her,’ the grief-stricken mother exclaimed.
Detective Barnes investigated, found a destitute mother of eight who had reported a missing child eighteen years prior. When questioned again, the adoptive mother explained, ‘I know it was wrong, but we saved her.’
Gina heard her mother’s scream. ‘It worked; he’s gone. Good riddance.’ The autopsy revealed cyanide. When they questioned her, she didn’t deny it. She made but one request, a comparison of her blood to her parents’.
The test revealed that she was not their daughter. The authorities questioned the mother, who told them Gina had been adopted. When asked about the paperwork, the mother admitted there hadn’t been any. ‘But we love her,’ the grief-stricken mother exclaimed.
Detective Barnes investigated, found a destitute mother of eight who had reported a missing child eighteen years prior. When questioned again, the adoptive mother explained, ‘I know it was wrong, but we saved her.’
Thursday, January 19, 2012
Splinters
I give to you a story in eleventy-one words...
John climbed the crumbling steps, watched red ants marching downhill in lockstep, ate an apple that shone yellow in the dawn. Are you finished with your chores, barked his guardian. Yes, most. Most or all. Most, not all. And when will you finish them? After I eat the apple; his incisors pierced the fruit. How about now? Later works better. I’ll teach you some manners you little freak; he swung his rake at the boy’s backside but dropped it before making contact. The broken handle fell to the ground in pieces. Splinters laced the man’s hands. You should be more careful, John said as he turned and shuffled down the hill.
John climbed the crumbling steps, watched red ants marching downhill in lockstep, ate an apple that shone yellow in the dawn. Are you finished with your chores, barked his guardian. Yes, most. Most or all. Most, not all. And when will you finish them? After I eat the apple; his incisors pierced the fruit. How about now? Later works better. I’ll teach you some manners you little freak; he swung his rake at the boy’s backside but dropped it before making contact. The broken handle fell to the ground in pieces. Splinters laced the man’s hands. You should be more careful, John said as he turned and shuffled down the hill.
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