Divine

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

I lingered in the plaza as rain cleansed the darkness. There, a medieval edifice – Barcelona’s Gothic Cathedral – loomed with its faithful gargoyles and cross-topped towers.

I moved forward, toward the massive doors. It rained fiercely, challenging the efficacy of the black umbrella I clutched.

I took another step. And lightning arced across the pitch.

I tried a final step. And thunder blossomed with frightening omnipotence.

I stopped, then, and eyed the shrine as the heavens poured forth a deluge.

Though a celestial flood threatened to immerse me in its violent waters, still I stood upon the stones. For in that moment, I knew nothing but communion with the divine.

Forced Awakenings

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

I approached the cashier; he spoke to a woman about Star Wars.

I’m a fan. The first movie I saw in theaters was Return of the Jedi. I sent away five proofs of purchase to obtain the Emperor action figure. Twice. I’ve watched the movies – even Phantom Menace – myriad times.

When Disney hired Abrams, I felt giddy. Not only is he an incredible director, but he’s good at keeping the story quiet, just like I like it.

I was to see The Force Awakens that night. I put my items down. Then the cashier revealed that…

For those who’ve seen it, you know what I mean.

He flinched when I snarled.

Necessity

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

My grandmother finished her rosary. After the final bead, she smiled – signaling she was ready to chat – and asked me about school.  I told her I was writing about the bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, and then railed against their barbarity. My grandmother listened quietly. In a rare adolescent moment of clarity, I asked her opinion.

‘You have to remember that we were going to invade Japan and probably lose a million men.’ She paused. ‘I’m not saying it was right, but it was necessary. Plus, your grandfather was in the Pacific; I don’t think he would have come back. So, if they didn’t drop them, you probably wouldn’t be here.’

Goodbye Grandpa

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

After bologna sandwiches, I’d retrieve the cribbage board, a not so subtle hint to my grandfather. We’d start in silence. A couple hands. Until the conversation began.

One day, I asked where he learned cribbage.

In the Pacific; on the carrier USS Antietam. A catapult operator; he helped launch the aircraft. He’d never seen action; they’d arrived too late. Traveled to Guam, Okinawa, Shanghai; on ‘occupation support duty.’ His captain was Japanese American; they’d have been in Tokyo Harbor for V-J Day were it not for a malfunction. There were no clouds at sea; just blue sea and sky.

He was my last personal link to the Greatest Generation.

Goodbye Grandpa.

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!

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. 

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.

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.’

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!

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.’

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.

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.