I give to you a story in eleventy-one words...
The ice jangled in the amber liquid. He let fly a belly laugh at some expertly told joke. I approached unseen, caught him by surprise. Hello, I humbly offered. Albert, how are you? Well, sir, and you? No complaints. How goes the singing career? I could hear both admiration and condescension in his tone. Well enough as long as I have a day job. He chuckled at the quip. I once had aspirations, he stared into the whisky. To be a surfer if you can believe it; the waves. He paused. But no matter, I’d rather be managing director over riding waves any day, he laughed. I didn’t quite believe him.
Saturday, February 4, 2012
Sunday, January 22, 2012
Saviors
I give to you a story in eleventy-one words...
Gina heard her mother’s scream. ‘It worked; he’s gone. Good riddance.’ The autopsy revealed cyanide. When they questioned her, she didn’t deny it. She made but one request, a comparison of her blood to her parents’.
The test revealed that she was not their daughter. The authorities questioned the mother, who told them Gina had been adopted. When asked about the paperwork, the mother admitted there hadn’t been any. ‘But we love her,’ the grief-stricken mother exclaimed.
Detective Barnes investigated, found a destitute mother of eight who had reported a missing child eighteen years prior. When questioned again, the adoptive mother explained, ‘I know it was wrong, but we saved her.’
Gina heard her mother’s scream. ‘It worked; he’s gone. Good riddance.’ The autopsy revealed cyanide. When they questioned her, she didn’t deny it. She made but one request, a comparison of her blood to her parents’.
The test revealed that she was not their daughter. The authorities questioned the mother, who told them Gina had been adopted. When asked about the paperwork, the mother admitted there hadn’t been any. ‘But we love her,’ the grief-stricken mother exclaimed.
Detective Barnes investigated, found a destitute mother of eight who had reported a missing child eighteen years prior. When questioned again, the adoptive mother explained, ‘I know it was wrong, but we saved her.’
Thursday, January 19, 2012
Splinters
I give to you a story in eleventy-one words...
John climbed the crumbling steps, watched red ants marching downhill in lockstep, ate an apple that shone yellow in the dawn. Are you finished with your chores, barked his guardian. Yes, most. Most or all. Most, not all. And when will you finish them? After I eat the apple; his incisors pierced the fruit. How about now? Later works better. I’ll teach you some manners you little freak; he swung his rake at the boy’s backside but dropped it before making contact. The broken handle fell to the ground in pieces. Splinters laced the man’s hands. You should be more careful, John said as he turned and shuffled down the hill.
John climbed the crumbling steps, watched red ants marching downhill in lockstep, ate an apple that shone yellow in the dawn. Are you finished with your chores, barked his guardian. Yes, most. Most or all. Most, not all. And when will you finish them? After I eat the apple; his incisors pierced the fruit. How about now? Later works better. I’ll teach you some manners you little freak; he swung his rake at the boy’s backside but dropped it before making contact. The broken handle fell to the ground in pieces. Splinters laced the man’s hands. You should be more careful, John said as he turned and shuffled down the hill.
Thursday, December 29, 2011
Teddy Bear
I give to you a story in eleventy-one words...
He sits on the gray steps, stewing in his own psychotic filth. He wraps his arm around a headless teddy bear full of bedbugs. His gums smack, unimpeded by teeth that rotted years ago. The beggar spies a father and his little girl approaching. He sees the girl look over and commences with his plea, ‘Sir, can you please hep me out? Little girl, you wanna see a teddy bear?’ The father mouths, ‘Sorry’, to which the delinquent counters, ‘You no good crackers. I hope her head gets torn off like this here bear’s, little bitch.’ His rant devolves into gibberish as the girl steals a glance at the decapitated bear.
He sits on the gray steps, stewing in his own psychotic filth. He wraps his arm around a headless teddy bear full of bedbugs. His gums smack, unimpeded by teeth that rotted years ago. The beggar spies a father and his little girl approaching. He sees the girl look over and commences with his plea, ‘Sir, can you please hep me out? Little girl, you wanna see a teddy bear?’ The father mouths, ‘Sorry’, to which the delinquent counters, ‘You no good crackers. I hope her head gets torn off like this here bear’s, little bitch.’ His rant devolves into gibberish as the girl steals a glance at the decapitated bear.
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
A Christmas Slug
It was a gift from my friend Steve Carls. He wanted me to cheer up, be less of a humbug. A recent breakup? A dead dog? Family and friends thousands of miles away? Fat chance, I told him. I’m not ungrateful, mind you. It was a nice gesture. A small, green weeping branch that smelled of pine, sported twin red baubles, and sat in a green plastic pot. I did follow the directions at first. Watered it at proper intervals with tepid water, kept it in indirect sunlight. That lasted a few days. Then work got busy. And there were obligatory holiday parties at which my sole purpose was to drink. In my countless December-induced drunken stupors, I’d stare blankly at bad sitcoms and avoid the sad stare of the wilting tree with its surrounding halo of brown needles.
Here I am on Christmas Eve. No festivities tonight. Just me and some well whiskey that I couldn’t afford. I’m watching a terrible remake of Miracle on 34th Street and wondering how this holiday can get any worse. After a few glasses – and interspersed shots – of the copper liquid, I snatch the green pot, spilling the arid earth amongst the brown needles that litter the ground. I strip the baubles and launch them across the room, where they shatter into hundreds of sharp pieces that will torture my bare feet for months. For whatever reason, I begin to laugh uncontrollably. Tears run down my cheeks. I take a sip of whiskey, spill some on my shirt. Then I have the ridiculous idea of pouring the remaining slug into the arid soil. It disappears. I pour another glass for myself. And another generous shot for the dead branch. The bad remake repeats. A cataract haze soon creeps over my eyes. After a final shot for the branch, I lose consciousness.
The bells of the adjacent church wake me at 10 am. On the television plays the original Miracle on 34th Street. In front of me there sit a small, green weeping branch with twin red baubles, an empty bottle of whiskey, and a postcard that reads, ‘Tis the season after all. Merry Christmas! S.C.’
Here I am on Christmas Eve. No festivities tonight. Just me and some well whiskey that I couldn’t afford. I’m watching a terrible remake of Miracle on 34th Street and wondering how this holiday can get any worse. After a few glasses – and interspersed shots – of the copper liquid, I snatch the green pot, spilling the arid earth amongst the brown needles that litter the ground. I strip the baubles and launch them across the room, where they shatter into hundreds of sharp pieces that will torture my bare feet for months. For whatever reason, I begin to laugh uncontrollably. Tears run down my cheeks. I take a sip of whiskey, spill some on my shirt. Then I have the ridiculous idea of pouring the remaining slug into the arid soil. It disappears. I pour another glass for myself. And another generous shot for the dead branch. The bad remake repeats. A cataract haze soon creeps over my eyes. After a final shot for the branch, I lose consciousness.
The bells of the adjacent church wake me at 10 am. On the television plays the original Miracle on 34th Street. In front of me there sit a small, green weeping branch with twin red baubles, an empty bottle of whiskey, and a postcard that reads, ‘Tis the season after all. Merry Christmas! S.C.’
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
Rain Is Wet
I give to you a story in eleventy-one words...
The young Asian woman eyed my umbrella. ‘Is it raining?’
‘Yes,’ I answered.
‘Maybe it isn’t now.’
‘Maybe,’ I admitted.
The elevator transported us to the lobby. We walked to the front doors.
‘Is it raining?’ she asked.
Sheets of rain pounded the glass.
‘Yes,’ I replied.
‘Can I have your umbrella?’
I considered my response. ‘What will I use?’
‘Nothing,’ she responded. ‘The rain won’t touch you.’
‘What?’
‘You will not get wet. With your umbrella, I will not get wet too.’ She smiled. ‘So I take?’
‘Here; I’ll try to find another.’
‘No need,’ she replied. She accepted the umbrella and disappeared into the rain.
I followed her outside.
The young Asian woman eyed my umbrella. ‘Is it raining?’
‘Yes,’ I answered.
‘Maybe it isn’t now.’
‘Maybe,’ I admitted.
The elevator transported us to the lobby. We walked to the front doors.
‘Is it raining?’ she asked.
Sheets of rain pounded the glass.
‘Yes,’ I replied.
‘Can I have your umbrella?’
I considered my response. ‘What will I use?’
‘Nothing,’ she responded. ‘The rain won’t touch you.’
‘What?’
‘You will not get wet. With your umbrella, I will not get wet too.’ She smiled. ‘So I take?’
‘Here; I’ll try to find another.’
‘No need,’ she replied. She accepted the umbrella and disappeared into the rain.
I followed her outside.
Thursday, December 1, 2011
The Italians
The young man strode with unmitigated purpose as his footfalls echoed across the cobblestone. The city at night soothed him with its worn brick and jutting metal. Summer had not yet weighted the air with its wet; spring lingered like an overzealous puppy.
A foreign exclamation split the night air like a gunshot. A shrill banshee voice retorted. The young man bound toward the noise hell bent on restoring broken silence. The bantering grew louder until there came into view two young men standing toe to toe, screaming garishly at each other in what he assumed to be Italian.
He galloped into the fray and moved between them with a dramatic thrust of his torso. They stared at him, vexed.
‘Please, gentlemen, there is no need to argue. I’m sure this can be settled diplomatically.’
The taller of the gentleman smiled with his dark features and scruffy face. ‘But we no argue, signore. We just having a talk.’
The young man hastened away into the darkness confused about whether he had helped or hindered the vociferous Italians.
The Italians continued with their cacophony.
A foreign exclamation split the night air like a gunshot. A shrill banshee voice retorted. The young man bound toward the noise hell bent on restoring broken silence. The bantering grew louder until there came into view two young men standing toe to toe, screaming garishly at each other in what he assumed to be Italian.
He galloped into the fray and moved between them with a dramatic thrust of his torso. They stared at him, vexed.
‘Please, gentlemen, there is no need to argue. I’m sure this can be settled diplomatically.’
The taller of the gentleman smiled with his dark features and scruffy face. ‘But we no argue, signore. We just having a talk.’
The young man hastened away into the darkness confused about whether he had helped or hindered the vociferous Italians.
The Italians continued with their cacophony.
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