Mini-fridge

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

The two men wheeled the mini-fridge into the coffee shop and asked where it should go.

A young Asian man, the owner, directed them to a seemingly unreachable spot behind the counter.

The two men looked at each other and chuckled. ‘You figure it out,’ one of them responded.

Displeased, the owner subtly uttered three words, ‘Do your job.’

The men immediately lifted the unit onto the counter.

The owner persisted, ‘Finish your job.’

They stomped behind the counter, lowered the box onto the ground, and maneuvered it into place.

The owner concluded, ‘You may go.’

They marched out.

The owner turned to me and smiled. ‘You will write about this.’

Magic

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

With his birthday celebrations ended, he chose to spend a day alone in Brooklyn.

He would visit Catland, a metaphysical shop, and Roberta’s, a pizza place.

He stepped into Catland expecting to feel magic.

There was no magic, just old comics and phallic candles.

He scurried away.

He entered Roberta’s wanting to order a slice.

There were no slices, just something pizza-like.

He took two and left.

He proceeded to a park hoping to sit and eat.

There was no park, just a baseball field under construction.

He opened the gate and sat in a dugout.

He sighed, then chuckled.

Magic exists within each of the moments that comprise a life.

Lazy Day

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

I wake.

It is early and there is no sun.

I pray and do twenty-two pushups in memory of a friend and stretch and write and read aloud to myself an excerpt from Satchmo.

The forty-nine square mile map gazes up at me in miniature begging me to choose some part of its peninsular tip.

I savor a lackluster sandwich and the outdoor seating at a local establishment known for its fruit.

The hill climbs ahead of me bellowing its laughter up into the wind while my bald head burns beneath cooling perspiration.

I arrive after wandering circuitous paths, all in service of the destination.

The return is uneventful.

I sleep. 

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’.

Click for Pizza 1

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.’


Click for Pizza 2

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.