Dripping

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

He spied his sullen countenance in the murky looking glass. The same haggard look with sunken, empty eyes stared back. He with his filthy pants and heavy shirt fell into bed and knew nothing more…

Until a distinct dripping woke him during darkness’ dying hours. There had been no rain. And the sink in the flat was dry as dead bone. The incessant metallic splash endured, however. Believing himself irrational after scouring the space, he moved to extinguish the light. That’s when he saw the dripping faucet in the mirror. He swiveled and gazed upon the flat’s unoffending spigot.

‘That’s not all that’s different here,’ he heard his own voice claim. 

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.

Recollection

‘You don’t remember?’ asked Kevin.

‘No,’ whined Tim.

They meandered down the wooden walk.

‘Are you going to tell me what happened?’

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

‘I have no idea; I went somewhere else. Though I don’t know that I would tell you if I knew.’

‘Asshole.’

They traipsed further.

John approached, ‘Quite the night, huh?’

‘Yep,’ they responded.

John smirked, then to Tim, ‘How are you feeling?’

Tim’s eyes narrowed, ‘Fine…’

‘You put on quite the show.’ He took a piece of green elastic fabric from his pocket having the number two and letter ‘x’ adjacent. ‘These were yours, right?’

Tim’s eyes went wide.

Kevin blurted, ‘Oh my!’

And John asked, ‘You don’t remember?’

Calling

I give to you streams of consciousness in eleventy-one words...

I sit on the scorching sand; it cools. Beside me, my long dead dog wags his tongue and tail in juxtaposed rhythm. I’m waiting for something, someone. My mother approaches. ‘Do you know…’ she utters, but her voice halts. She shrugs; a melancholy smile crosses her lips. She snaps, and my dog follows her anticipating dinner. Wind swept whispers follow. I listen to infinite deities speak of truth in languages I’ve never learned. A phone rings; my grandmother’s voice announces, ‘you’ve got a calling.’ I ask who it is. I ask where the phone is. I ask where she is. I don’t think to ask what it is. No response comes. 

Whiskey

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

‘Can I help you?’

‘A table for one, outside.’

‘But it’s pouring.’

‘There are umbrellas.’

‘But…’

‘No more buts. Seat me.’

He led her to a table.

‘Can you please wipe down the chair?’

He did so with a huff.

‘Bring me your best whiskey, neat. And I’ll know if it isn’t your best.’

He returned, placed the glass before her, and remained.

‘Why are you waiting?’

‘Making sure you like it.’ Then to himself, ‘you crazy bitch.’

She dipped her finger in the glass, flicked the drop onto the sidewalk between his legs. It popped like a cap gun.

‘It’ll do.’

He ran into the restaurant.

She chuckled. ‘Ah, whiskey…’

Mother and Child

I give to you a story in 2x eleventy-one words...

A singular dollop of crisp rain splashed upon her greasy head; it woke her from deep slumber. She thought herself at home beneath the leaky ceiling. When she heard a girl shriek, her plump body came to rigid attention. She sought the scream’s origin but saw only blurred flashes dashing about. The banshee wail came again. A few blinks and she focused on a young lad soaking some fleeing girl with a multi-colored super soaker. The woman’s torso relaxed as she let fly an audible sigh. She leaned back against the bench and let the warm breeze play upon her lips. That’s when it dawned on her. The stroller was gone.

She stood abruptly. Myriad stars littered her consciousness. The bench aborted her fall. A cop approached, asked her if all was well. She lied poorly, stammering through stilted English that it was. He considered her, smiled crookedly, and departed. Deportation, she posited, was not what she needed. She dialed and spoke after the answerer’s hello, someone took your child. Silence followed. Then, I’ll call the cops; please come. The nanny knocked, listened for footsteps, watched as the cop from the park opened the door. She entered. There sat mother and child flanked by the stroller. You’re fired, the mother sobbed. The cop continued, ma’am I need you to come with me.

Spark

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

He answered the door; their eyes met. They exchanged a sad, silent greeting. He opened his mouth to speak; a passing siren stopped him short. She responded with a melancholy grin. He motioned for her to enter; she shook her head. A tear fell down the inside of her cheek. He moved to wipe it away; he couldn’t stop the droplet from falling into the corner of her mouth. She licked her lips. His finger lingered in midair; she took his hand in hers. The spark remained. He tried to speak again; she moved her index finger perpendicular to her lips. She looked into his eyes once more, turned, and departed.