New York City

I give to you a letter to NYC in eleventy-one words...

Howdy New York,

I’ll soon be departing but wanted to wax poetic about what I’ll miss most about you.

I’ll miss the twenty minute walk to work and my daily disbelief that I worked at World Trade Center. I’ll miss hearing ‘Tequila!’ from across the bar. I’ll miss walks to Whole Foods Bowery just before it closed. I’ll miss the Saturday ritual of Gotham and Gym Bar. I’ll miss that slice at Joe’s at three in the morning.

Most of all, I’ll miss all the wonderful people that you and the universe conspired to put in my life these past four years. I am a better man because of you.

Ciao

The Search

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

‘We have fifteen apartments to see today,’ said the broker.

The first was a third floor one-bedroom in SoMa. Sean, our guide, told us there was also one on the sixth. The price and location were right. But the broker reminded me that I had paid for a full day. I considered and conceded.

After the tenth stop the first option was still the best. The broker called Sean. The sixth floor apartment had been rented; the third floor apartment was still available. She asked if they could hold it. They couldn’t. We were in the Mission District during rush hour on a Friday. I had a bad feeling about it.

---

It took twenty minutes to return. I gave Sean the completed rental application, credit report, and proof of employment information.

He pointed to the offer letter. ‘It isn’t signed.’

‘It’s the front page.’

‘I need a signed copy.’

I rummaged through my phone, found it, showed it. ‘I signed.’

‘They didn’t.’ He paused.  ‘We’ll also take your last two paystubs.’

I printed the paystubs, handed them to him. But I was too late. A couple had secured the apartment just minutes before. I slumped, disappointed.

Sean excused himself. He returned moments later and said, ‘the guy’s credit fell through on the sixth floor apartment. Would you like it?’

Hello San Francisco!

Thank you

I give to you a note of sincere appreciation in eleventy-one words...

To you from Seattle to San Diego to Miami to NYC and everywhere between; to you texters and facebookers and callers; to you former Milkshakes and Thrusters and Iron Men and Buzz; to you teammates and coaches and opponents and cheerleaders; to you Blue Hens and Trojans; to you former B-Liners; to you current Moody’s mates; to you family – including a mother who sent me no fewer than six e-cards today; to you my best friends – you know who you are; to you who hold a special place in my heart; to each and every one of you who wished me a happy birthday in some way, I sincerely thank you.

The Wipe

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

‘My pastor recommended it, said it was a leadership conference.’ He shook his head, trying to navigate the memories. ‘They brought us here. Where is here?’ He surveyed the white windowless walls for some clue. A bed. A sink. A toilet. ‘I’ve been here… years, I think. I’m a language specialist. An operative of some kind.’

The doctor and general traded glances in the command center.

‘He remembers at precisely the same time each day before we activate “the wipe”. None of the others do,’ remarked the doctor.

‘He’s dangerous. If you can’t find a way to purge those memories, we will terminate him.’

‘But he’s our best.’

‘I don’t care.’

Master and Pupil

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

He of bantam stature rests mount and frame upon the marble floor. Twice he rounds the dying figure noting twists and turns obscured to mortal men before positioning himself upon a sable stool that lets him contemplate the poor woman’s unfortunate countenance. Passersby glimpse the raptly static man adjacent to an easel eager to be used. But stolen glances at the canvas prove disappointing for it remains as blank as a dead man’s face. The visitors resentfully depart, their meager hopes to witness some beatific vision, shattered. He pays them no mind as he considers the able grip of Lucretia’s marmoreal digits as she plunges a dagger into her barren chest.

The boy enters through the far atrium – crude and sullen with flaxen locks – and approaches haltingly as if a reluctant disciple worshipping at a clandestine altar profaned by Roman monarchy. He pays brief homage to the reclining figure before advancing to his teacher. The diminutive man disregards him; instead, he reclines, lingers, ogles, sighs. In some raw limbic cavern, the boy understands. And though the majority of his corporeal fibers urge him to flee, he remains beside his mentor, blindly focusing on the poor woman’s empty eyes. Suddenly the wee man bolts from his seat with a flourish that jolts his fair pupil. He motions towards the stool. The boy sits.

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 wand 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.

A moment – or hours – later, the pupil lets the implement plink upon the ground and stands as is his custom at the end of these sessions. The teacher replaces him on the stool and returns to staring obliviously at the proud statue. The student, meanwhile, retrieves his pencil. He then shoulders his sack and, without looking back, leisurely strolls whence he came and disappears. For the next hour passersby halt in droves, their eyes flitting between sketch and sculpture. They don’t know what they see, but they know it’s right. At the end of the hour, the master finally reviews his student’s work. A single tear slides down his whiskered cheek.

Leaves

I give to you a repurposed oldie (but goodie) in eleventy-one words...

He saw the terrified woman surrounded by a group of ruffians.

‘Hey guys.’

The hoodlums turned.

‘Why don’t you stop harassing her?’

The leader, a hefty, bearded man said, ‘How ‘bout we harass you instead?’ He motioned for his posse to follow.

He pulled from his pocket a bag of leaves.

‘You think a little weed is gonna help?’

‘It’s not weed,’ he replied as he swallowed the leaves whole.

The thugs advanced.

With two well-aimed punches, he incapacitated the closest two before pummeling the rest.

After the massacre ended, he checked on the woman. ‘You okay?’

‘Yeah. But what was that?’ she asked, pointing at the empty plastic bag.

‘Spinach.’

Dry

I give to you a series of seven haiku in eleventy-one words...

Sweat seeps from his pores,

His thirsty throat dry as bone,

In the swimming pool.

She hangs the red shirt

To dry in the yellow sun,

But a black cloud looms.

A few dry eyes gaze

As she lies on the blue bed.

It’s not a sad wake.

He clicked on the screen.

The system fatally crashed.

Twas just a dry run.

‘Hi, my name is Mike.

I have been dry for twelve days.’

He sips from his flask.

He climbs to the bow,

Claims to be king of the world

On a dry docked ship.

‘Is it right or wrong?’

‘Yes,’ he replied with a smirk.

Dry wit eludes me.

Origins

I give to you the origin of Eleventy 1 in eleventy-one words...

It started with the blog Three Word Wednesday. The owner of said blog posted ‘Fiction in 58,’ stories written in fifty-eight words. The number had no draw for me. But the concept did, especially since I often found it difficult – given my propensity for verbosity – to slash unnecessary words. I therefore decided to transfigure the bloody carcass of Random Rejoinders – the name by which this blog was formerly known – into bite-size story morsels. But my number wasn’t immediately apparent. Until I remembered ‘The Fellowship of the Ring.’ The story begins with Bilbo’s one hundred and eleventh birthday. Except Tolkien uses the word, eleventy-one. My inner geek blossomed; I found my number. 

The Talent - John

I give to you a continuation of The Talent in eleventy-one words...

His name was John. He grew up in a small house with his parents and younger siblings. His life was short. There were no memories of a wife. Or of a love interest. He did not attend school, but rather worked as long as he could remember. Except for Sundays; church was always for Sundays.

The story ended abruptly. Painfully. I focused, somehow, on that moment. He was hunting rabbits with his brother. He spotted some, was waiting them out. But the rabbits ran, spooked by something. Someone. ‘Run!’ he shouted; his brother fled. He struggled, briefly. Then a stab. Followed by searing pain. Then nothing.

No living soul remembers him.

Puppet

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

The puppet stared at her.

‘You need me more than I need you,’ she spat.

She swore the puppet smirked.

‘A sweet lovable koala? I know differently.’

The puppet fell back, seemingly exasperated.

She sat him up. ‘See, you have a terrible attitude.’

The smirk remained.

‘Maybe I’ll toss you into the trash. Or, better yet, into an incinerator. How about that?’

The koala fell forward, she thought, to hide its laughter.

She righted him again. ‘I know. I will destroy your reputation instead.’

A voice called, ‘Darlene, let’s go. We’re waiting for you.’

‘Coming,’ she answered. She extracted her hand from the puppet, grabbed her jacket, and joined the others.

Open Book

I give to you a text conversation I had with a friend in eleventy-one words...

Have fun last night?

Yes, but it was a bit much. People. Sweat.

I escaped the muchness.

There you go.

There I went, technically.

Very you.

A predictably open book as it were.

I think you have a few chapters locked away.

Does anyone ever share everything? If so, is it not but an approximation based on personal bias? No person can ever be captured except in collections of fleeting moments.

Poetic and true.

Not sure it’s poetic, but it certainly smacks of the elusive concept called truth.

You love words.

Are you nicely calling me verbose?

Affirmative.

I am also accomplished at curt one-word replies.

I’m well aware.

Truth abounds.

Dragon

I give to you a true story from my vacation in the Northwest in eleventy-one words...

He pushed away from the table with a huff and eyed the restaurant for his opponent. He stalked towards the exit, turned at the far corner, and traipsed back into the bar area. Upon his return, he spotted a manager and purposefully approached him.

‘I lost,’ he pointed to the screen. ‘I am Dragon.’

The manager smirked, ‘Okay?’

‘I want to know who beat me.’

‘Ash did, according to the screen.’

‘Who is Ash?’

‘I don’t know.’

He sputtered a bit more, to no avail, and returned to his seat.

Meanwhile, Tara, Ashley, and I – dragon slayers all – barely contained our laughter. It seems Dragons take their trivia seriously in Lynnwood.

Pig

I give to you a conversation about a pet pig in eleventy-one words...

The two older women ate their breakfast in a café overlooking Alki beach.

‘My sister bought a pig.’

‘A pig?’

‘Yes, a pot-bellied pig.’

‘Why?’

‘I think she’s going to eat it.’

‘She bought a pig to eat it?’

‘That’s what she did with the rabbits.’

‘She had rabbits?’

‘Yeah, she raised them and ate them.’

‘How did she kill them?’

‘She brought them to a butcher, I think.’

‘That’s strange.’

‘I know… She has a dog and a parrot too.’

‘So she has a pig, a dog, and a parrot?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Is she going to eat the dog and parrot too?’

‘I don’t think so. Gee, I sure hope not.’

Justice

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

She saw the aggressive driver tailgating. When the tailgatee moved, he accelerated towards the exit. But she switched lanes, forcing him to slow considerably. She smiled, convinced that she had exacted justice.

As they exited, he swerved into the left lane, while she remained in the right. They were adjacent when they came to the merge. She signaled and inched in front of him, expecting that he would yield. He didn’t. The cars collided causing his mirror to break. She hit the gas. ‘Stop!’ he yelled. She drove through the next light, leaving him far behind. She took a series of turns. He hadn’t followed. She sighed, relieved at her escape.

Fun

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

I sat, writing in Washington Square Park.  A young black woman with bright red hair and unfocused eyes sat beside me.

‘Hi,’ she said.

‘Hi’

‘Do you want sangria?’

‘No thanks’

She took a swig. ‘A cigarette?’

‘No’

‘Is that your diary?’

‘Of sorts’

‘Do you have a girlfriend?’

‘No’

‘Why not? You’re attractive, smart, ambitious.’

‘I’m not looking.’

She paused, glanced around conspiratorially, and half-whispered ‘Do you want to have some fun?’

‘No thank you.’

I packed my bag and stood.

‘Aww, where are you going?’

I thought it best not to say, far away from you. ‘I have to be somewhere. Have a good day.’

‘Okay, well bye then.’

The Talent

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

I discovered the ‘talent’ when I was young.

My parents booked a cabin in New Hampshire for our vacation. One day, my father and I walked down the main road until we came to a path. Being the semi-adventurous sort, we entered. Soon we found a small cemetery plot full of worn gravestones. I moved to clean one off. When I did, I saw a life flash before my eyes. But it wasn’t my own. It was the life of him buried beneath the stone. What struck me was this hadn’t happened when I had touched other gravestones.  

I later learned it only occurs with those whose lives have been forgotten.

Dunes

I give to you a true story from this weekend's Fire Island volleyball tournament in two times eleventy-one words...

‘Can you read the sign that says stay off the dunes?’ the volunteer asked through his megaphone. ‘Then why are you in the dunes? Your team forfeits a game.’

Our team thought it a joke. It wasn’t.

We had played six games to determine seeding for the single elimination round. Was it one of those six? Or was it the elimination game, meaning our day was over? We thought it the latter. Our team complained. We spoke angry words. Draconian. Stupid. Unfair.

Another captain came to speak with us. ‘You won’t forfeit the game,’ he said. ‘You just have to win by sixteen.’ We had a handicap. But we had hope.

We entered the elimination round as the fourth seed of eight. We were focused, determined. And from the first serve, I knew we’d win. But would it be enough? At fourteen seven, maybe. At twenty twelve, doubtful. Then came their fifteenth point. We lost, playing our best volleyball of the day.

After the game, I checked with the opposing captain who knew nothing of our handicap. So, I ran to the volunteer. He indicated that the forfeit had been assessed for the seeding, not for elimination. We hadn’t lost; there was hope.

Four lessons learned. Teams need a common purpose. There’s always hope. Never assume. And stay off the friggin dunes!

Almond Eyes

I give to you a witnessed interaction in eleventy-one words...

They exit the bank one after the other onto the corner. She pauses to adjust her headscarf. He sees his chance and softly touches her on the shoulder. She turns and looks at him with beautifully almond shaped, brown eyes.

‘Hi, I couldn’t help but notice how beautiful you are.’

She smiles. ‘Thank you.’

A brief pause ensues as they consider each other.

‘Would you like to get a coffee or drink?’

‘That’s very sweet, but I’m leaving for home tomorrow.’

‘Oh.’ He looks down. In that instant, he uncharacteristically decides to muster his courage. He looks up again and says, ‘I don’t mind if you don’t.’

Her smile grows wider.

Solutioning

I give to you a corporate conversation in eleventy-one words...

‘Please revert back to me about the solutioning exercise.’

‘Huh?’

‘Revert to me about the solutioning exercise.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘Just what I said.’

‘So, you want me to transform back into you while I do an exercise around “solutioning”?’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘I don’t.’

‘Get back to me when you have some solutions to the problem.’

‘Why don’t you just say that?’

‘I did.’

‘No, you asked me to become you innately at some time in the past.’

‘You’re being pedantic. Words evolve.’

‘I understand word evolution. I’m tired of corporate speak. Say what you mean in plain English.’

‘It is what it is.’

‘No shit, Sherlock.’

Kale and Lentils

I give to you an overheard, paraphrased, one-sided phone conversation at Whole Foods Bowery in New York City in eleventy-one words...

‘I’ve been working out.’

‘Yeah, I have a trainer.’

‘I lift weights and do cardio four times a week.’

‘But I’m still a skinny bitch. If you saw me you’d say I look exactly the same.’

‘I’ve been going for three months. He says I’m exercising and eating right. He tells me to be patient.’

‘I eat like a fucking bird.’

‘Yes, kale and lentils and other tasteless shit. Do you know how much protein powder costs?’

‘I’m over it.’

‘What’s worse is I’m surrounded by people who do nothing and look perfect.’

‘I know.’

‘I know.’

‘I know!’

‘I’m never going to find anyone anyway. Why do I even bother?’

Rats

I give to you absurd ramblings in eleventy-one words...

I smell a rat.

You do?

No, it’s a colloquialism.

Oh.

I mean someone is up to no good.

Why do you say that?

Strange things are happening.

What strange things?

Things have gone missing.

They have?

Well, you don’t pay attention.

I do.

Not to missing things.

Like what?

Like rats. They go missing.

But they mostly come back.

What about when they don’t?

I’m not sure.

Exactly. That’s why I smell a rat.

If rats go missing, how do you smell them?

The fact that rats go missing is the colloquial rat I smell.

I’m confused.

That’s exactly what they want.

Who?

Those responsible for the missing rats.

Oh.

B

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

‘What’s the strangest thing on the menu?’ Chad asked the pubescent Cambodian waiter.

The waiter smiled and nodded, a trick I often encourage if you’ve no idea what’s being said.

Chad chuckled with exasperation. He looked back at the menu – written entirely in Khmer, but with pictures – and then back up at the waiter, ‘Do you have any bugs or insects?’

The waiter smiled more widely, nodded more vigorously.

‘Bzz?’

‘Bzz?’ the waiter responded curiously.

Chad pointed excitedly at the menu and reiterated, ‘bzz.’

The waiter contemplated for a moment, then said, ‘B.’

‘B?’ Chad inquired.

‘B.’

‘B?’

‘B. Bzz.’

Chad considered, then his face brightened, ‘Bee! Bzz! I’ll take that!’

-

Shortly thereafter, we were served something akin to a small casserole. Rectangular and brown in color, it sat upon a banana leaf.

‘I guess it’s a free appetizer, maybe something to cleanse the palate,’ he commented. He tried it. ‘A weird texture. Gritty but a little sweet.’

I tasted it and confirmed his assessment.

‘But what is it?’

I shrugged.

Chad called the waiter over. ‘What is this?’

‘B.’

‘B?’ He paused. ‘Oh, bee! This is bee? Wait, what?’

Chad was flummoxed. The waiter tried to find the words to explain. Then, it hit him.

‘B baby.’

‘B baby?’

‘Baby bzz.’

‘Bee babies? Oh, larvae!’

The waiter nodded.

We laughed.

Humming

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

My grandfather and I watched television in the den. ‘No Whammies!’ the contestants repeatedly screamed until he pressed mute. He continued to entertain with a soundtrack of coughs, burps, snorts, farts, and squeaks interspersed betwixt the murmuring of a tune existing only in his head. His cacophonous interlude soon gave way to a nap.

I moved to the living room couch.

It was then that I heard my grandmother in the kitchen. Sifting through coupons. Clicking her rosary beads. Washing a dish. Cleaning the countertop. Throughout these daily tasks, she hummed Lara’s Theme with her sweet, soft, and soothing voice.

I closed my eyes, smiled, and lingered in that perfect moment.

Oven On Low

I give to you the story of my grandmother's birth in eleventy-one words...

It was February 12, 1923. A burly man greeted the doctor; concern shone in his eyes. ‘Come! Come!’ the man urged. They found the man’s pregnant wife in bed. The husband looked at the doctor. ‘Too early,’ he whimpered.

‘Three months too early,’ the doctor replied gravely.

The doctor soon delivered a premature baby girl. He snipped the umbilical cord, wrapped her up, and headed for the kitchen. Once there, he turned the oven on low, opened the door, and put the baby in a baking pan.

‘You will need to keep her on low with the oven door open,’ he explained. ‘I will be back to check on her daily.’

Lights Out

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

I gaze out the window. There’s an emptiness in the frigidity, a silence in the snow white sheet superimposed on the ebony desolation. Suddenly, I watch as the lights flicker and die. The scene is pitch. Only my lone clove candle battles the stygian void.

There immediately comes at my door a knock. Thinking it might be a needy neighbor, I grab the candle, unbolt the lock, open the door, and peek into the hallway just in time to see the far hallway door close. I look down and see the faint outline of a card. I retrieve it and read, ‘Come down within five minutes; your life depends on it.’