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.
Monday, March 26, 2012
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.
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