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.

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.

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.’