I give to you a story in eleventy-one words...
Tess greeted Susan and suggested, “Let’s set up your device.”
After a few false starts with passwords, Tess asked, “Do you use Siri?”
“Yes, though it’s a real pain.”
Tess chuckled. “First, say ‘Hey Siri.’ Then, make a request.” Another shopper interrupted, and Tess moved away from the table.
“Hey Siri.” No response. “Hey Siri!” Still nothing. Susan tried at least ten more times, to no avail.
When Tess returned, Susan grumbled, “It isn’t working,”
“Your Siri must be cranky. I have an idea.”
“Please, I’ll try anything.”
“Say ‘Hey Siri, I’m sorry.’”
“Why?”
“Just try it.”
Susan spoke reluctantly, “Hey Siri, I’m sorry.”
Siri replied. “For what? Please be specific.”
Wednesday, December 25, 2019
Wednesday, December 18, 2019
Duck
I give to you a poem in eleventy-one words...
“I’ve a duck,” he proclaimed, “for Christmas day.”
“A duck, do you say? Why buy it today?
‘Tis but the fifth; why tease me with fowl…”
(A passing grimace did his face betray.)
“When twenty long days have we to delay?”
“I’ve many glad notions ‘bout what I’ll do,
Like boil or bake it or toss it in stew.”
Ere he the fowl in the freezer stuffed
And fled the kitchen with plenty ado.
I meanwhile snacked on a roasted cashew.
Upon reentry he said not a word
Neither greeting nor mention of the bird.
My last bid to embrace him proved a bust;
As he scampered away, I stood nonplussed.
“I’ve a duck,” he proclaimed, “for Christmas day.”
“A duck, do you say? Why buy it today?
‘Tis but the fifth; why tease me with fowl…”
(A passing grimace did his face betray.)
“When twenty long days have we to delay?”
“I’ve many glad notions ‘bout what I’ll do,
Like boil or bake it or toss it in stew.”
Ere he the fowl in the freezer stuffed
And fled the kitchen with plenty ado.
I meanwhile snacked on a roasted cashew.
Upon reentry he said not a word
Neither greeting nor mention of the bird.
My last bid to embrace him proved a bust;
As he scampered away, I stood nonplussed.
Monday, December 9, 2019
Weights
I give to you a story in eleventy-one words...
Doug slid weights onto each side of the barbell, then sat to start his second set.
A silver-haired woman lurked nearby, eager to speak. She inched toward him; her eyes searched Doug’s for acknowledgment.
Startled, Doug removed his headphones in wary anticipation.
“Will you put these weights away?” The rebuke smoldered behind her poorly masked curiosity.
Eyebrows furrowed, he drawled, “Sure.” His intonation rose at the word’s conclusion as if he, himself, wasn’t convinced.
“Well, people don’t.” She harrumphed and slunk away, though continued to monitor him.
When Doug completed his final set, he felt her probing eyes but didn’t meet them. Instead, he scanned the gym with an amused expression.
Doug slid weights onto each side of the barbell, then sat to start his second set.
A silver-haired woman lurked nearby, eager to speak. She inched toward him; her eyes searched Doug’s for acknowledgment.
Startled, Doug removed his headphones in wary anticipation.
“Will you put these weights away?” The rebuke smoldered behind her poorly masked curiosity.
Eyebrows furrowed, he drawled, “Sure.” His intonation rose at the word’s conclusion as if he, himself, wasn’t convinced.
“Well, people don’t.” She harrumphed and slunk away, though continued to monitor him.
When Doug completed his final set, he felt her probing eyes but didn’t meet them. Instead, he scanned the gym with an amused expression.
Sunday, December 1, 2019
Jingle Bells
I give to you a story in eleventy-one words...
Celia started singing Jingle Bells. After a few words, she and her family transformed the restaurant into a festive wonderland.
Ted, the restaurant’s manager approached with a stern expression; Andrew, the girl’s father, stood.
“You are bothering the customers.”
“But everyone’s singing. Don’t worry, we’ll tip well.” Andrew motioned to sit, but Ted grabbed his arm.
“Don’t touch me.”
“She needs to stop.”
“Or what?”
“You’ll get thrown out.”
“Try it.”
“Excuse me?”
Andrew turned. Ted grabbed him again. Andrew reflexively threw a punch that put him on the floor.
The song stopped. Everyone and everything, except Andrew, disappeared.
Gas hissed causing Andrew to collapse. “Prep him for the next trial.”
Celia started singing Jingle Bells. After a few words, she and her family transformed the restaurant into a festive wonderland.
Ted, the restaurant’s manager approached with a stern expression; Andrew, the girl’s father, stood.
“You are bothering the customers.”
“But everyone’s singing. Don’t worry, we’ll tip well.” Andrew motioned to sit, but Ted grabbed his arm.
“Don’t touch me.”
“She needs to stop.”
“Or what?”
“You’ll get thrown out.”
“Try it.”
“Excuse me?”
Andrew turned. Ted grabbed him again. Andrew reflexively threw a punch that put him on the floor.
The song stopped. Everyone and everything, except Andrew, disappeared.
Gas hissed causing Andrew to collapse. “Prep him for the next trial.”
Friday, May 24, 2019
A Wish
I give to you a conversation in two times eleventy-one words...
A wish?
A wish.
This seems sketchy.
Why, because you didn’t find me in a lamp?
Yeah, for one. What are the conditions?
No conditions.
That doesn’t seem right.
Why is that?
Don’t I get three wishes?
I used to do three. It got… complicated.
What do you mean?
Never mind that. I’m offering a wish. Do you want it?
Yes. Does that mean I can wish for more wishes?
If you’d like.
Doesn’t that defeat the purpose of not giving three wishes?
Nope.
Are you trying to trick me?
Why would I try to trick you?
Why wouldn’t you?
If I had wanted to trick you, I could have interpreted any one of your questions as a wish. I haven’t.
Oh.
He pauses.
Why wouldn’t everyone wish for more wishes?
Not sure.
Has everyone wished for that?
Is that your wish?
What?
To know what everyone else has wished.
No.
I have been lax with you thus far. This is no trick. But beware your next utterance lest you live with regret.
He pauses again.
I want to think about it.
The genie sighs.
Your wish is my command. You will think about the one wish you wish to wish for all your days.
With that, the genie disappears leaving the boy to consider the one wish he could have wished.
A wish?
A wish.
This seems sketchy.
Why, because you didn’t find me in a lamp?
Yeah, for one. What are the conditions?
No conditions.
That doesn’t seem right.
Why is that?
Don’t I get three wishes?
I used to do three. It got… complicated.
What do you mean?
Never mind that. I’m offering a wish. Do you want it?
Yes. Does that mean I can wish for more wishes?
If you’d like.
Doesn’t that defeat the purpose of not giving three wishes?
Nope.
Are you trying to trick me?
Why would I try to trick you?
Why wouldn’t you?
If I had wanted to trick you, I could have interpreted any one of your questions as a wish. I haven’t.
Oh.
He pauses.
Why wouldn’t everyone wish for more wishes?
Not sure.
Has everyone wished for that?
Is that your wish?
What?
To know what everyone else has wished.
No.
I have been lax with you thus far. This is no trick. But beware your next utterance lest you live with regret.
He pauses again.
I want to think about it.
The genie sighs.
Your wish is my command. You will think about the one wish you wish to wish for all your days.
With that, the genie disappears leaving the boy to consider the one wish he could have wished.
Thursday, April 18, 2019
Rooftop
I give to you a story in two times eleventy-one words...
I stare out across the rooftops at the cold, white sunset. Around the still blinding light beckon indigo hues, tempting me to take flight. I peer over the edge to see a nondescript street littered with parked vehicles and sauntering pedestrians. My eyes close. I contemplate the leap after a running start from the roof’s center and see myself hurdle over the ledge. The wind whistles as I plummet through the twilight.
Except I do not hit the ground. Instead, my body hovers. After my initial shock, I scan the area for witnesses, but everyone and everything stands chaotically still.
I see movement. There stands a cloaked figure below me moving as if through a viscous fluid. I descend, upright, toward the sidewalk until my feet find the pavement. The world reanimates. A voice or thought or some lost idea surfaces, “What the mind and heart imagine, the soul creates. The body merely follows.” The cloaked figure peers from under the hood to reveal seering emerald eyes. The disembodied words repeat. The scene fades, as if a camera zooms out to reveal an evening laced with fog and fantasy. I feel an eerie peace.
I stare back across the rooftops at myriad sparkling lights, stars fallen from heaven. The nascent night coaxes me to linger, listen, and laugh aloud, vexing passersby below.
I stare out across the rooftops at the cold, white sunset. Around the still blinding light beckon indigo hues, tempting me to take flight. I peer over the edge to see a nondescript street littered with parked vehicles and sauntering pedestrians. My eyes close. I contemplate the leap after a running start from the roof’s center and see myself hurdle over the ledge. The wind whistles as I plummet through the twilight.
Except I do not hit the ground. Instead, my body hovers. After my initial shock, I scan the area for witnesses, but everyone and everything stands chaotically still.
I see movement. There stands a cloaked figure below me moving as if through a viscous fluid. I descend, upright, toward the sidewalk until my feet find the pavement. The world reanimates. A voice or thought or some lost idea surfaces, “What the mind and heart imagine, the soul creates. The body merely follows.” The cloaked figure peers from under the hood to reveal seering emerald eyes. The disembodied words repeat. The scene fades, as if a camera zooms out to reveal an evening laced with fog and fantasy. I feel an eerie peace.
I stare back across the rooftops at myriad sparkling lights, stars fallen from heaven. The nascent night coaxes me to linger, listen, and laugh aloud, vexing passersby below.
Sunday, April 7, 2019
Trunk Bites
I give to you a story in two times eleventy-one words...
‘It bit me!’
Liam’s parents exchanged a glance. ‘What bit you?’ His father eyed him with an interest he hadn’t shown since Mazeroski hit that famous walk-off homer.
‘The trunk!’ Liam cried. ‘Look.’ On the inside of his index finger, two tiny holes began to trickle red globules. ‘It hurts,’ he waved it in the air like a mad conductor aching to extract baroque themes from a Philip Glass work.
Doing her best mourning dove impression, Liam’s mother cooed at him as she gently grasped his forearm. ‘Trunks don’t bite,’ she chuckled airily.
After Liam’s mother had applied unguent and an aged bandaid to the wound, she brought him upstairs where his father sat on the offending piece of furniture. Dazed and pale, his father gave him a weak smile. ‘This trunk won’t be biting anyone else,’ he declared in mock triumph. ‘Come see.’
Liam vehemently shook my head.
His mother stepped from behind him and sat next to his father on the trunk. ‘See?’ she commented, ‘Perfectly safe.’
Liam inched toward them. ‘What did you do to it?’ he asked.
‘I fed it so it wouldn’t eat you,’ his father smirked.
Liam froze.
‘Jim, what are you doing?!’ my mother fumed. And then to her son, ‘He’s just kidding.’
But Liam had already fled to seek the safety of his room.
‘It bit me!’
Liam’s parents exchanged a glance. ‘What bit you?’ His father eyed him with an interest he hadn’t shown since Mazeroski hit that famous walk-off homer.
‘The trunk!’ Liam cried. ‘Look.’ On the inside of his index finger, two tiny holes began to trickle red globules. ‘It hurts,’ he waved it in the air like a mad conductor aching to extract baroque themes from a Philip Glass work.
Doing her best mourning dove impression, Liam’s mother cooed at him as she gently grasped his forearm. ‘Trunks don’t bite,’ she chuckled airily.
After Liam’s mother had applied unguent and an aged bandaid to the wound, she brought him upstairs where his father sat on the offending piece of furniture. Dazed and pale, his father gave him a weak smile. ‘This trunk won’t be biting anyone else,’ he declared in mock triumph. ‘Come see.’
Liam vehemently shook my head.
His mother stepped from behind him and sat next to his father on the trunk. ‘See?’ she commented, ‘Perfectly safe.’
Liam inched toward them. ‘What did you do to it?’ he asked.
‘I fed it so it wouldn’t eat you,’ his father smirked.
Liam froze.
‘Jim, what are you doing?!’ my mother fumed. And then to her son, ‘He’s just kidding.’
But Liam had already fled to seek the safety of his room.
Saturday, March 30, 2019
Long Night
I give to you a story in two times eleventy-one words...
A commotion in the kitchen preceded a disappointed exclamation. ‘Look,’ he whined in dismay as into the room I popped. I glimpsed the broken plate, then realized it wasn’t a plate from the cabinet.
‘Where did you get that?’
His grimace told me something was awry.
‘From the hutch?’ His upspoken statement trailed as he wilted beneath my stern gaze.
‘Have you lost your mind?’ I shouted before stalking off to the bedroom.
Knowing I needed time to simmer, he entered later with a plate of deviled eggs and a snifter of scotch. ‘How are you?’ he inquired sheepishly.
I half-heartedly grunted.
‘I’m sorry. I wanted our last night to be special.’
‘They specifically said not to use anything in the hutch.’
‘I know.’
I popped an egg into my mouth.
‘You’re going to fix it, right?’
A swig of scotch washed down my throat. I sighed.
‘Right?’
The mustard’s tang and the scotch’s smoke commingled deliciously. Time paused; I felt in the back of my neck the beginnings of a familiar pain.
He waited.
‘When are you ever going to take responsibility?’
‘Sorry’ he groveled.
My no longer nascent headache worsened. ‘Fine; bring me the plate.’
‘Yay!’ he exclaimed insensitively. ‘Oh, and I’ll take care of everything else’ he replied as an afterthought.
I sighed again, preparing for a long night.
A commotion in the kitchen preceded a disappointed exclamation. ‘Look,’ he whined in dismay as into the room I popped. I glimpsed the broken plate, then realized it wasn’t a plate from the cabinet.
‘Where did you get that?’
His grimace told me something was awry.
‘From the hutch?’ His upspoken statement trailed as he wilted beneath my stern gaze.
‘Have you lost your mind?’ I shouted before stalking off to the bedroom.
Knowing I needed time to simmer, he entered later with a plate of deviled eggs and a snifter of scotch. ‘How are you?’ he inquired sheepishly.
I half-heartedly grunted.
‘I’m sorry. I wanted our last night to be special.’
‘They specifically said not to use anything in the hutch.’
‘I know.’
I popped an egg into my mouth.
‘You’re going to fix it, right?’
A swig of scotch washed down my throat. I sighed.
‘Right?’
The mustard’s tang and the scotch’s smoke commingled deliciously. Time paused; I felt in the back of my neck the beginnings of a familiar pain.
He waited.
‘When are you ever going to take responsibility?’
‘Sorry’ he groveled.
My no longer nascent headache worsened. ‘Fine; bring me the plate.’
‘Yay!’ he exclaimed insensitively. ‘Oh, and I’ll take care of everything else’ he replied as an afterthought.
I sighed again, preparing for a long night.
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