Whisper

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

Leaning on a red mahogany walking stick, he stood crookedly atop the grassy pinnacle, surveying the almost unidentifiable remains of the fallen holy edifice. Faded memories emerged momentarily like rays of sunshine amidst a hurricane’s eye. The church seemed a relic, the result of a targeted bombardment in some distant war. It could be said that the building had been blown to bits by indifference, his included. But he didn’t feel regret, exactly, but rather a longing for a time when he didn’t have to try so hard to find meaning.

He walked to what had been the altar and, with effort, sat upon the ground listening for a soft whisper.

Continuum

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

Wrapped in an expansive, though inadequate, crocheted navy scarf and a pea coat with its anchor-inscribed buttons, I both watch his fingers play across the ivories and listen to his mantic melodies, muted by branches of the stark, leafless northern red oak.

I remember when we sat here, our knees touching as the summer sun set. Only now do I understand that neither we together nor each of us individually were broken. Funny how points in time taken discretely seem disjointed, as if the chronology is all wrong, but how those same points in time strung along a continuum somehow make sense.

I rise, tip the pianist, and walk home alone.