Humming

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

My grandfather and I watched television in the den. ‘No Whammies!’ the contestants repeatedly screamed until he pressed mute. He continued to entertain with a soundtrack of coughs, burps, snorts, farts, and squeaks interspersed betwixt the murmuring of a tune existing only in his head. His cacophonous interlude soon gave way to a nap.

I moved to the living room couch.

It was then that I heard my grandmother in the kitchen. Sifting through coupons. Clicking her rosary beads. Washing a dish. Cleaning the countertop. Throughout these daily tasks, she hummed Lara’s Theme with her sweet, soft, and soothing voice.

I closed my eyes, smiled, and lingered in that perfect moment.

Oven On Low

I give to you the story of my grandmother's birth in eleventy-one words...

It was February 12, 1923. A burly man greeted the doctor; concern shone in his eyes. ‘Come! Come!’ the man urged. They found the man’s pregnant wife in bed. The husband looked at the doctor. ‘Too early,’ he whimpered.

‘Three months too early,’ the doctor replied gravely.

The doctor soon delivered a premature baby girl. He snipped the umbilical cord, wrapped her up, and headed for the kitchen. Once there, he turned the oven on low, opened the door, and put the baby in a baking pan.

‘You will need to keep her on low with the oven door open,’ he explained. ‘I will be back to check on her daily.’

Lights Out

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

I gaze out the window. There’s an emptiness in the frigidity, a silence in the snow white sheet superimposed on the ebony desolation. Suddenly, I watch as the lights flicker and die. The scene is pitch. Only my lone clove candle battles the stygian void.

There immediately comes at my door a knock. Thinking it might be a needy neighbor, I grab the candle, unbolt the lock, open the door, and peek into the hallway just in time to see the far hallway door close. I look down and see the faint outline of a card. I retrieve it and read, ‘Come down within five minutes; your life depends on it.’