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.  

Beef Pork Fish

I give to you an experience in three times eleventy-one words...

‘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.