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.