Toothpaste

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

‘Stella!’

‘Huh?’

‘Stella, c’mere!’

‘I’m downstairs. Whaddya want?’

‘C’mere!’

She climbs the stairs slowly.

Her husband waits at the apex holding a tube of toothpaste in his hands. ‘Why don’t you squeeze from the bottom?’ He moves his hands to demonstrate.

‘Really, George?? You interrupted me for a tube of toothpaste?’

‘I been telling you for thirty years.’

‘So.’

‘Well, you obviously ain’t listening.’

‘Obviously.’

‘It’s real simple, Stella. All ya gotta do is work from this end,’ he points to the flat end of the tube.

‘I’m going back downstairs.’

‘You gonna listen to me this time, Stella?’

‘No, George, I ain’t.’ She turns and ventures back to the laundry.  

Night Shift

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

‘Grady, you’re on the night shift.’

‘I just finished a double, sir.’

‘Do I look like I care?’

‘I’m going home, sir.’

‘Are you stupid, Grady? You’re on the night shift.’

‘Due respect, sir, I’m not.’

Usually quiet and respectful, Grady spoke with subdued confidence.

The officer stepped toward the grunt; spittle rained upon Grady’s face. ‘That wasn’t a request.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I’m glad we are clear.’

‘We’re not, sir.’ Grady formed a fist that grew improbably larger as it constricted. He cocked back and
slammed the fist into the officer’s face. He then proceeded to deposit the unconscious officer between
two dumpsters and left his post unwatched for the night.

Still Fishing

I give to you the continuation of the linked story in eleventy-one words... http://eleventy1.blogspot.com/2008/09/prompt-five-senses-theme.html

A gumball of a raindrop plops just ahead; ripples ease out from the epicenter. She eyes the concentric circles, forgetting, for the moment that she has no more bait. Countless additional plunks like African drumming set the laughing fish aflutter. She retreats to shore, her pole waving like a spell spent wand. Her tired eyes search for a worm, an insect, the rotting corpse of some gutted beast. Twilight mocks her with its opacity; the now steady rain pummels her with its little lavender fists, offering the illusion that it will cleanse her. It is the weight of darkness, her final surrender. She sits cross-legged and empty handed on the sand.

Sweater

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

I happened upon the cream hued woolen sweater at the flea market.  After minimal haggling with a diminutive Irishman, I took home my prize and resolved to wear it that evening. Having slept only five hours the night before, I changed into pajamas and fell fast asleep in my bed.

A few hours later, I slowly gained consciousness. I felt the moist pillow first, then noticed I was sweating. I stretched, felt fabric on my arms. My eyes opened wide; I sat up. The woolen sweater – the only clothing on my body – clung to my torso, buttoned perfectly from neck to waist. I unbuttoned it, threw it down, stared at it.

Tattoos

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

He inched his hand up her blouse; his fingers fumbled and failed to unclasp the bra strap. Her nimble hand unfastened and yanked the undergarment out through her sleeve before he could blink. She turned and smiled. Then her blouse flew into the air and landed on the floor, leaving him to stare at her bare back. Well, not exactly bare. On the left was the countenance of a gaunt, slack-jawed man. On the right was a fat bearded face.

‘Who are they?’

‘My two dead husbands. They both died within the week after they turned 51. How old are you?’

‘I just turned 47.’

‘Well, we have a few years…’

No Place Like Home

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

He walked into the storage unit licking his chapped lips and clapping his sawdust covered cotton gloves. ‘What do we got in here?’ he asked as he slapped the backside of a life-sized Santa lawn ornament. A ruby glow caught his eye. ‘What the hell is that?’ he asked Santa. Clawing his way through the detritus, he flung poorly written books and crappy plastic knick-knacks about. In the corner sat a duffle bag, partially open. The crimson glow persisted. His hands dove into the aperture and yanked a pair of sparkling slippers, the mother lode, his best ever find. Until he discovered the severed feet clinging lifelessly to the shoes’ interiors.