Pizza 2

I give to you the second part of a serial based on this Reddit writing prompt in eleventy-one words...

Yes, I have a plan. It involves my big mouth, lots of pizza, and not getting killed before 7am. Gino has agreed to donate the food and his ‘special’ delivery truck. I’ve mapped the route that has the least chance of running into people. And I’ll have two times as many pizzas as I need. If – or more likely, when – I get pulled over by the gangs, I’ll do a quick sell and offer slices for the road, free of charge.

Why wouldn’t they shoot me and take the truck and pizza for themselves? I’m glad you asked. Let’s just say it has to do with what makes the truck ‘special’.

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Pizza 1

I give to you the first part of a serial based on this Reddit writing prompt in eleventy-one words...

‘This is stupid.’

‘If Gino’s gonna pay me seventy-five times my regular salary, I’m gonna try. You know my mother needs this money.’

‘Tom was the last guy who tried it, and he died. It ain’t worth it. We’ll get the money another way.’

‘How?’

‘I don’t know. A raffle or a bake sale or something.’

‘A raffle? Really? Look, I’ve already committed. And Gino has told ten clients that I’m coming. That’s eight grand before tips.’

‘Delivering pizza on Purge Night is suicide! The only people ordering tonight are rich sadists who enjoy seeing you try not to die.’

‘I don’t care. I’m doing it. And I have a plan.’


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Predictions

I give to you a story in eleventy-one words (using the Reddit prompt, 'The bad guys won and the world was conquered by the villain's armies decades ago. You and your spouse are worried as you suspect your child may be suffering from Chosen Oneness or perhaps an acute case of Prophetic Heroism.)...

‘How could you let him go to the rally?’

‘Let him? He’s a man; he does what he wants.’

‘A man? He’s sixteen, a boy.’

‘When the government set age limits for our kind, boys became men.’

‘They’ll kill him!’

‘Maybe. But the predictions…’

‘Don’t!’

‘People flock to him. They follow him. They safeguard him. He is theirs as much as he is ours.’

‘No! He is mine! My boy!’

‘What do you propose? Restrain him? He won’t listen.’

She bowed her head.

‘I’m scared too; I want to protect him. Yet, something tells me he’s meant to protect us.’ He paused. ‘I believe in him. And I will follow him.' 

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.