Sleepover

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

He stepped into the darkness, clicked his phone’s power button, and watched it die. He shook his head to dislodge the fog from his brain. ‘Think’ he urged himself. But only a fractured stream of pregnant pauses filled his mind.

‘You okay?’

He turned to see the barkeep. ‘No, not really.’

‘C’mon in.’

He followed.

'I have a cot in the basement.’

‘Thank you.’

The bartender opened the creaking door. ‘Sleep well, son.’

With that, he inched onto the first step and spied into the darkness. The door suddenly closed behind him; the light went out. Before he could turn, the step disappeared. He fell onto a pile of bones.

Locker

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

He beams as he enters the deserted locker room with bolt cutters in tow, for hidden treasures lurk behind the many flimsy metal doors. The blades slice through the first lock. He finds inside a pair of Adidas that smell like a dead rat wrapped in Munster. He reaches to touch one of the sneakers. The shoe’s history flickers through his mind. On tennis courts, pavement, hardwood floors. Scuff marks and stains disappear. A familiar burning courses through his veins. His hand shakes as the shoe reverts to its former state. He releases the now brand new shoe and drops to the bench, exhausted. It promises to be a long night.

Rocker

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

He settles into the antiquated rocker, leans his head against the multi-hued afghan. Flooding memories actualize in a single tear that slides down his pale cheek. The epic games of cribbage at the dining room table. The cries of anger from the den after an interception. The whistling of Lara’s Theme from the kitchen. He rubs his clammy palms along the smooth finished maple. The chair and he glide along the squeaking joints of the hardwood. For a moment, he pinpoints those elusive feelings. Of warmth and safety, joy and peace. They are fleeting, mere wisps of what was. All that now remains is the rhythmic undulation of the pendulous rocker.

Goodbye

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

I sift through the last container determining if I want any of the detritus therein. The garage door opens with its familiar hemming and hawing. My mother enters, reminds me that the train is at six. I survey the unfinished basement with its myriad accumulated memories. Something nags me then, a sense of finality wrapped in haste. I ascend the stairs and find my grandparents reclining in the den. I shake my grandfather’s hand, kiss my grandmother’s cheek, and dart back down the stairs. As we depart, I glance at the dogwood, the row of unkempt hedges, this house I’ve known since birth. And I realize it’s time to say goodbye. 

Grounders

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

Calvin arrived late and sauntered to the dugout.

‘The Bullets hit hard.’ I saw the team nodding. ‘Be warned; I’m going to do the same.’

Calvin slowly stretched.

I soon called over, ‘Joining us today?’

‘I need to stretch,’ he answered indignantly.

When finally he took his place at second, I hit a couple soft grounders that he handled with ease. The next few hits came harder. He pulled his head and missed them completely.

‘Everything okay?’ I asked.

‘You’re hitting the balls really hard. I’m tired and just got off work.’

I ignored the rant. ‘Where are you afraid the ball will hit you, the face?’

‘The abs,’ he responded.

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.