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.

Mirrors

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

‘My son refuses to leave his room.’

‘Why?’

‘Something about mirrors.’

‘What about them?’

‘I have no idea. What I know is he keeps destroying them. I would’ve taken him to you but I was afraid he’d smash the car’s mirrors too.’

‘Does he have a history of mental illness?’

‘No, doctor. I’ve never seen him like this.’

‘How old is he?’

‘Twenty-three.’

‘Your address?’

‘Seventeen Oak Street.’

‘I’ll be right there.’

He hung up, turned to his partner. ‘We have another one.’

‘How much does he know?’

‘Everything, I think.’

‘Has he talked?’

‘He’s hinted about it in texts to a few people.’

‘Okay,’ he sighed, ‘Let’s go get him.’

Cups

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

‘We’re gonna need to repurpose the cup room.’

‘But…’

‘You know we don’t have enough space. People keep finding priceless treasures, and we can no longer store everything. All museums are having the same problem.’

‘If there’s a possibility it’s in there, we need to keep all of them.’

‘How do you propose proving that one of them is the one?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Exactly. Look, we have room for a boxful.’

‘No! We can’t do this. We may be throwing away one of the most treasured artifacts of all time.’

He smiled wistfully. ‘The power is not in the object itself but in the legends that surround it. Choose wisely…’ 

Grappling

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

They understood each other in that moment, their grappling arms gridlocked atop a flimsy table.

Jacob, the ambitious graduate, long-limbed and gladiatorial.

Bob, the inadequate leader, too young to retire and too old to learn new tricks.

After imbibing at the annual holiday gathering, a contingent of determined drinkers sought additional beverages at a local tavern. It wasn’t long before the multitude engaged in the time-honored tradition of arm wrestling.

After the weak had faltered, there remained but an old manager and his disrespectful direct.

There they handily tussled, neither able to best the other, until after an expansive five minutes Jacob gradually forced Bob’s hand asunder.

But everything had changed. 

Lions

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

No matter where he was, they always got in. Always...

The lions hadn't seen him yet, but once they had they would attack.

Sitting quietly never worked, and he wasn't quick enough to escape.

He could yell for his foster family, but it was the middle of the night.

Just then a knock came. The lions froze. 'Everything okay?' his foster mother asked. They stalked toward the door. In a moment of courage - for fear they would attack - he yelled, 'No!'

At that she opened the door and chased after the felines until he told her they had fled. Then she hugged him and sat with him until he fell asleep.

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.