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.

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.

Art Student

I give to you an observation at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in eleventy-one words...

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 rod 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.

Process Flow

I give to you an observation in eleventy-one words...

Her coifed faux strawberry hair bounced atop her head as she approached the ATM. She inserted a card, left it in the slot, waited. Nothing happened. She pulled it out, inserted it, left it. The machine indicated the card couldn’t be read. She tried another card. Inserted, waited… Extracted, inserted, waited... Same result. She moved to an adjacent machine, used the second card. Inserted. Waited… Extracted. Inserted. Waited... Same result again.

Her husband entered. ‘What’s the problem?’

‘It’s temperamental.’

‘Jesus Christ ,woman. We’re late.’ He stalked out.

Frustrated, she inserted the card, extracted it, then inserted it again. The machine requested her PIN.

‘Stupid machine,’ she grumbled.

‘Stupid people.’ I chuckled.

Strands

I give to you an observation in eleventy-one words...

It hung like a tiny suspended waterfall and glistened in the fluorescent subway glow. The white, gray, and black threads intermingled forming a monochromatic yarn durable enough for the assembly of heavy rope and yet soft enough for the creation of an afghan that would coddle a newborn. A single string could anchor a Snoopy float, haul in a marlin, lasso a bull. It could be used to string a bow that would yield a magnificent sound upon an aged Stradivarius. It could be tailored into a plush garment that would vex many a conservative Catholic. And yet all I could think at the time was, please sir, shave your mole…