Sleepover

I give to you a story in eleventy-one words...

He stepped into the darkness, clicked his phone’s power button, and watched it die. He shook his head to dislodge the fog from his brain. ‘Think’ he urged himself. But only a fractured stream of pregnant pauses filled his mind.

‘You okay?’

He turned to see the barkeep. ‘No, not really.’

‘C’mon in.’

He followed.

'I have a cot in the basement.’

‘Thank you.’

The bartender opened the creaking door. ‘Sleep well, son.’

With that, he inched onto the first step and spied into the darkness. The door suddenly closed behind him; the light went out. Before he could turn, the step disappeared. He fell onto a pile of bones.

Locker

I give to you a story in eleventy-one words...

He beams as he enters the deserted locker room with bolt cutters in tow, for hidden treasures lurk behind the many flimsy metal doors. The blades slice through the first lock. He finds inside a pair of Adidas that smell like a dead rat wrapped in Munster. He reaches to touch one of the sneakers. The shoe’s history flickers through his mind. On tennis courts, pavement, hardwood floors. Scuff marks and stains disappear. A familiar burning courses through his veins. His hand shakes as the shoe reverts to its former state. He releases the now brand new shoe and drops to the bench, exhausted. It promises to be a long night.

Rocker

I give to you a story in eleventy-one words...

He settles into the antiquated rocker, leans his head against the multi-hued afghan. Flooding memories actualize in a single tear that slides down his pale cheek. The epic games of cribbage at the dining room table. The cries of anger from the den after an interception. The whistling of Lara’s Theme from the kitchen. He rubs his clammy palms along the smooth finished maple. The chair and he glide along the squeaking joints of the hardwood. For a moment, he pinpoints those elusive feelings. Of warmth and safety, joy and peace. They are fleeting, mere wisps of what was. All that now remains is the rhythmic undulation of the pendulous rocker.

Goodbye

I give to you a true story in eleventy-one words...

I sift through the last container determining if I want any of the detritus therein. The garage door opens with its familiar hemming and hawing. My mother enters, reminds me that the train is at six. I survey the unfinished basement with its myriad accumulated memories. Something nags me then, a sense of finality wrapped in haste. I ascend the stairs and find my grandparents reclining in the den. I shake my grandfather’s hand, kiss my grandmother’s cheek, and dart back down the stairs. As we depart, I glance at the dogwood, the row of unkempt hedges, this house I’ve known since birth. And I realize it’s time to say goodbye. 

Grounders

I give to you a story in eleventy-one words...

Calvin arrived late and sauntered to the dugout.

‘The Bullets hit hard.’ I saw the team nodding. ‘Be warned; I’m going to do the same.’

Calvin slowly stretched.

I soon called over, ‘Joining us today?’

‘I need to stretch,’ he answered indignantly.

When finally he took his place at second, I hit a couple soft grounders that he handled with ease. The next few hits came harder. He pulled his head and missed them completely.

‘Everything okay?’ I asked.

‘You’re hitting the balls really hard. I’m tired and just got off work.’

I ignored the rant. ‘Where are you afraid the ball will hit you, the face?’

‘The abs,’ he responded.

Dripping

I give to you a story in eleventy-one words...

He spied his sullen countenance in the murky looking glass. The same haggard look with sunken, empty eyes stared back. He with his filthy pants and heavy shirt fell into bed and knew nothing more…

Until a distinct dripping woke him during darkness’ dying hours. There had been no rain. And the sink in the flat was dry as dead bone. The incessant metallic splash endured, however. Believing himself irrational after scouring the space, he moved to extinguish the light. That’s when he saw the dripping faucet in the mirror. He swiveled and gazed upon the flat’s unoffending spigot.

‘That’s not all that’s different here,’ he heard his own voice claim. 

60th

I give to you a true story in eleventy-one words...

The old man and I greeted, hugged, headed inside. We exchanged stories, stared at the emerald grass. meandered to our seats. We sat, talked about his father, remarked about the appropriateness of this game against the Tigers. We ate dogs, drank beer, reminisced about trips to the real Stadium.

He booed A-Rod. He barked at telegraphing pitchers. He yelled at lazy batters. He stood as Mo entered. He said, ‘two homeruns tie up the game.’

(Cabrera hit one, Martinez the other.)

I never pegged him for a mystic.

Still, they won.

My grandfather harrumphed in his grave.

I smiled, celebrating the old man’s 60^th in the house that Ruth kinda built.

Recollection

‘You don’t remember?’ asked Kevin.

‘No,’ whined Tim.

They meandered down the wooden walk.

‘Are you going to tell me what happened?’

I give to you a story in eleventy-one words...

‘I have no idea; I went somewhere else. Though I don’t know that I would tell you if I knew.’

‘Asshole.’

They traipsed further.

John approached, ‘Quite the night, huh?’

‘Yep,’ they responded.

John smirked, then to Tim, ‘How are you feeling?’

Tim’s eyes narrowed, ‘Fine…’

‘You put on quite the show.’ He took a piece of green elastic fabric from his pocket having the number two and letter ‘x’ adjacent. ‘These were yours, right?’

Tim’s eyes went wide.

Kevin blurted, ‘Oh my!’

And John asked, ‘You don’t remember?’

Calling

I give to you streams of consciousness in eleventy-one words...

I sit on the scorching sand; it cools. Beside me, my long dead dog wags his tongue and tail in juxtaposed rhythm. I’m waiting for something, someone. My mother approaches. ‘Do you know…’ she utters, but her voice halts. She shrugs; a melancholy smile crosses her lips. She snaps, and my dog follows her anticipating dinner. Wind swept whispers follow. I listen to infinite deities speak of truth in languages I’ve never learned. A phone rings; my grandmother’s voice announces, ‘you’ve got a calling.’ I ask who it is. I ask where the phone is. I ask where she is. I don’t think to ask what it is. No response comes. 

Whiskey

I give to you a story in eleventy-one words...

‘Can I help you?’

‘A table for one, outside.’

‘But it’s pouring.’

‘There are umbrellas.’

‘But…’

‘No more buts. Seat me.’

He led her to a table.

‘Can you please wipe down the chair?’

He did so with a huff.

‘Bring me your best whiskey, neat. And I’ll know if it isn’t your best.’

He returned, placed the glass before her, and remained.

‘Why are you waiting?’

‘Making sure you like it.’ Then to himself, ‘you crazy bitch.’

She dipped her finger in the glass, flicked the drop onto the sidewalk between his legs. It popped like a cap gun.

‘It’ll do.’

He ran into the restaurant.

She chuckled. ‘Ah, whiskey…’

Mother and Child

I give to you a story in 2x eleventy-one words...

A singular dollop of crisp rain splashed upon her greasy head; it woke her from deep slumber. She thought herself at home beneath the leaky ceiling. When she heard a girl shriek, her plump body came to rigid attention. She sought the scream’s origin but saw only blurred flashes dashing about. The banshee wail came again. A few blinks and she focused on a young lad soaking some fleeing girl with a multi-colored super soaker. The woman’s torso relaxed as she let fly an audible sigh. She leaned back against the bench and let the warm breeze play upon her lips. That’s when it dawned on her. The stroller was gone.

She stood abruptly. Myriad stars littered her consciousness. The bench aborted her fall. A cop approached, asked her if all was well. She lied poorly, stammering through stilted English that it was. He considered her, smiled crookedly, and departed. Deportation, she posited, was not what she needed. She dialed and spoke after the answerer’s hello, someone took your child. Silence followed. Then, I’ll call the cops; please come. The nanny knocked, listened for footsteps, watched as the cop from the park opened the door. She entered. There sat mother and child flanked by the stroller. You’re fired, the mother sobbed. The cop continued, ma’am I need you to come with me.

Spark

I give to you a story in eleventy-one words...

He answered the door; their eyes met. They exchanged a sad, silent greeting. He opened his mouth to speak; a passing siren stopped him short. She responded with a melancholy grin. He motioned for her to enter; she shook her head. A tear fell down the inside of her cheek. He moved to wipe it away; he couldn’t stop the droplet from falling into the corner of her mouth. She licked her lips. His finger lingered in midair; she took his hand in hers. The spark remained. He tried to speak again; she moved her index finger perpendicular to her lips. She looked into his eyes once more, turned, and departed.

Smile

I give to you a story in eleventy-one words...

He was meandering down the main path when he came upon a whirling white creature in the meadow’s midst, an adolescent girl. Seeing no one in the vicinity, he traversed the field.

‘Are you okay?’

She stared at him.

‘Where are your parents?’

She shrugged.

A young couple came into view. No sooner had they appeared than the girl began to scream. The couple raced to them.

‘Are you okay?’ they asked the girl.

‘He tried to hurt me.’

At that the young man restrained the older man and the woman hurried away with the child. As they fled, the old man caught on the little girl’s face a sardonic smile. 

The Weapon

I give to you a story in eleventy-one words...

She raised the bullhorn. ‘You are not welcome! You will not build! We will endure!’ The ragtag protesters echoed her cries like a destitute flock of deformed geese.

On the other side of the flimsy wooden wall, a rat faced man named Henderson and a gigantic bear of a man named Little plotted.

‘They think we’re building.’

‘How wrrrrong they arrrrre,’ purred Henderson. ‘Do you have the weapon?’

‘Yes. Trust me, it’ll do the job.’

‘It betterrrr; I want complete destrrrrruction.’

Little entered the massive trailer and returned with a container. Henderson took the cylinder with his left hand and deftly slit Little’s throat with the dagger in his right.

‘Purrrrfect…’

Contrition

I give to you a story in eleventy-one words...

‘Your transfer is complete.’ He shifted uncomfortably.

‘Thank you, Eminence.’

‘I have heard your confession and trust your contrition.’ He paused. ‘ You know you can never return to that parish.’

‘I understand, Eminence.’

‘I encourage you to condemn your actions but forgive yourself.’

‘I shall, Eminence.’

‘Your path will be brutal; you must never again succumb to those appetites.’

‘I know, Eminence. I will not allow it to happen again.’

‘You are a young man, Father Nash, with a promising future. I see in you much of myself.’

The young man groped for words. ‘You are too kind, Eminence.’

‘Every man deserves a second chance, Father. Good luck with yours.’

Prayer

I give to you a prayer in eleventy-one words...

Thanks for nothing. How can I believe in a God that will let this happen? It’s a disgrace. And you say it’s all because you want us to learn to love you of our own free will. Bullshit. What are you, some kind of narcissist? Some self-aggrandizing egotist who lords his love for power over people who don’t know any better? I know what really happens with those second set of footsteps; you leave. I know what the dark night of the soul is; you abandon us. I know what you are; you’re a fraud. I doubt you; I doubt everything about you. And yet, I can’t stop talking to you...

Chastity

I give to you a story in eleventy-one words...

He genuflected, signed himself, and exited the chapel observing those holy men whose countenances stared blankly into the darkness. Back in his room, he removed the collar and poured whiskey into a snifter tinted with past libation. He sipped, felt the flames of hell tickle at his parched throat. A wistful knock came softly at the wooden door.

‘Come.’

His friend, a fellow seminarian, entered almost reluctantly. They exchanged no glance, just undressed until naught but their underclothing clung to their damp bodies. They pulled back the sheets, arranged themselves on the bed, and held each other tightly.

‘Is this chaste?’

‘I don’t know.’

They fell into deep and restful sleep.

Toothpaste

I give to you a story in eleventy-on words...

‘Stella!’

‘Huh?’

‘Stella, c’mere!’

‘I’m downstairs. Whaddya want?’

‘C’mere!’

She climbs the stairs slowly.

Her husband waits at the apex holding a tube of toothpaste in his hands. ‘Why don’t you squeeze from the bottom?’ He moves his hands to demonstrate.

‘Really, George?? You interrupted me for a tube of toothpaste?’

‘I been telling you for thirty years.’

‘So.’

‘Well, you obviously ain’t listening.’

‘Obviously.’

‘It’s real simple, Stella. All ya gotta do is work from this end,’ he points to the flat end of the tube.

‘I’m going back downstairs.’

‘You gonna listen to me this time, Stella?’

‘No, George, I ain’t.’ She turns and ventures back to the laundry.  

Night Shift

I give to you a true story in eleventy-one words...

‘Grady, you’re on the night shift.’

‘I just finished a double, sir.’

‘Do I look like I care?’

‘I’m going home, sir.’

‘Are you stupid, Grady? You’re on the night shift.’

‘Due respect, sir, I’m not.’

Usually quiet and respectful, Grady spoke with subdued confidence.

The officer stepped toward the grunt; spittle rained upon Grady’s face. ‘That wasn’t a request.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I’m glad we are clear.’

‘We’re not, sir.’ Grady formed a fist that grew improbably larger as it constricted. He cocked back and
slammed the fist into the officer’s face. He then proceeded to deposit the unconscious officer between
two dumpsters and left his post unwatched for the night.

Still Fishing

I give to you the continuation of the linked story in eleventy-one words... http://eleventy1.blogspot.com/2008/09/prompt-five-senses-theme.html

A gumball of a raindrop plops just ahead; ripples ease out from the epicenter. She eyes the concentric circles, forgetting, for the moment that she has no more bait. Countless additional plunks like African drumming set the laughing fish aflutter. She retreats to shore, her pole waving like a spell spent wand. Her tired eyes search for a worm, an insect, the rotting corpse of some gutted beast. Twilight mocks her with its opacity; the now steady rain pummels her with its little lavender fists, offering the illusion that it will cleanse her. It is the weight of darkness, her final surrender. She sits cross-legged and empty handed on the sand.

Sweater

I give to you a story in eleventy-one words...

I happened upon the cream hued woolen sweater at the flea market.  After minimal haggling with a diminutive Irishman, I took home my prize and resolved to wear it that evening. Having slept only five hours the night before, I changed into pajamas and fell fast asleep in my bed.

A few hours later, I slowly gained consciousness. I felt the moist pillow first, then noticed I was sweating. I stretched, felt fabric on my arms. My eyes opened wide; I sat up. The woolen sweater – the only clothing on my body – clung to my torso, buttoned perfectly from neck to waist. I unbuttoned it, threw it down, stared at it.

Tattoos

I give to you a story in eleventy-one words...

He inched his hand up her blouse; his fingers fumbled and failed to unclasp the bra strap. Her nimble hand unfastened and yanked the undergarment out through her sleeve before he could blink. She turned and smiled. Then her blouse flew into the air and landed on the floor, leaving him to stare at her bare back. Well, not exactly bare. On the left was the countenance of a gaunt, slack-jawed man. On the right was a fat bearded face.

‘Who are they?’

‘My two dead husbands. They both died within the week after they turned 51. How old are you?’

‘I just turned 47.’

‘Well, we have a few years…’

No Place Like Home

I give to you a story in eleventy-one words...

He walked into the storage unit licking his chapped lips and clapping his sawdust covered cotton gloves. ‘What do we got in here?’ he asked as he slapped the backside of a life-sized Santa lawn ornament. A ruby glow caught his eye. ‘What the hell is that?’ he asked Santa. Clawing his way through the detritus, he flung poorly written books and crappy plastic knick-knacks about. In the corner sat a duffle bag, partially open. The crimson glow persisted. His hands dove into the aperture and yanked a pair of sparkling slippers, the mother lode, his best ever find. Until he discovered the severed feet clinging lifelessly to the shoes’ interiors.