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.

The Couple

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

Cabs whizzed past on sixth honking at one another with reckless abandon. I sipped whiskey from a white wine glass. No ice, just lapping liquid against crystal. Across the way were buildings of multivariate height, old brick factories remade into expensive spaces. I spied into empty offices with their fluorescent sheen, into apartments where holiday lights twinkled.  Unexpected movement caught my eye in an apartment I knew all too well. The couple stood toe to toe miming angry insults. I reached for my phone, searched frantically for her number. A dial tone. I glanced up, saw her tremble, waiver, fall. The scream erupted from me, waking my wife from heavy slumber.

Restart

The hardest thing is not to start. It’s to restart. There’s no longer that newness, just the dread that comes with thinking that you’ll never be as good as you were. Or as good as you thought you were. It paralyzes, pulls you back into its demon clutches, bludgeons you with stale French bread until your eyes bleed.

Yet I must. Restart. It’s the only way not to sink into oblivion. Picking myself up by the proverbial bootstraps. Forging ahead like Washington on the Delaware. Fearlessly sallying forth into the world righting all wrongs. No. Windmills would eat me alive.

It’s time, methinks, for whatever’s next. That’s nothing I ever expected.

Before and After

I give to you an experience in three times eleventy-one words...

I woke, showered, ate cereal. The office, closed. Precautionary, I thought. The apartment, powerless with no service. I had contingencies. I’d walk uptown and hunker down in one of the hundreds of coffee shops. This would pass in a blink of an eye, I thought.

I dressed, packed my bag, and began the trek. Past Houston. No cars, lights. Past the park where trees lay strewn about. Up 6^th, a few passersby. I ventured further. No Starbucks, McDonalds, Dunkin Donuts. No sounds of trains or planes or buses. Past 23^rd, I got a signal, and more texts than I could count. I had gone missing through no fault of my own.

 

Yes, I’m okay. I’m looking for somewhere to go to work. Are you crazy, they asked. I didn’t think so. Other texts told of the flooded tunnels, the 13-foot waves, the disaster-movie scenario of a submerged city. A misty rain obscured my sight.

A smattering of power past 34^th. Stranded tourists trying to catch cabs off a closed island. Some open delis, bodegas, their owners selling wares to the unprepared populace. They survived war and famine to open their shops, a friend said; a hurricane won’t stop them.

I made it to 57^th. The roads, closed, with cops ambling about. I saw the crane swinging in the wind atop a building.

 

I traipsed about for the day surveying the damage, made my way to a friend’s around dinner time to recharge my dying electronics. Please stay, he offered. No, I want to be in my own bed. I departed after dark and walked down 7^th.

Below 34^th, darkness descended. With rain covered glasses, I barely made out some figures until they were upon me. I imagined them to be zombies eying me angrily. I thought myself the proud idiot, murdered early in a B movie; I walked faster.

Just before descending into the abyss below 23^rd, a friend texted me, now you know what it’s like to be there before and after.

Steps

I give to you an observation in eleventy-one words...

A short burst of air through pursed lips. He scrunches his down syndrome doughboy face from the mild stink of ammonia.

‘Whew!’

A pause. His short, kielbasa legs take the first steps to his promised land.

‘Ach…’

He bends, looks like a too full garment bag, fat on fat. Steps, contemplates a second, thinks better of it.

‘Ugh.’

Headphones askew and trending toward the back of his cue ball head. Another step; more trending.

‘Humph…’

He looks up, eyes a brunette belle, accidentally licks his toothpick lips with cow tongue, stumble steps.

‘Ah!’

On the home stretch. Last step with his socked, sandaled pig feet.

‘Zzzuh…’

Yet another successful stair climb.

Dulcet

I give to you a story in eleventy-one words... (For the entire story, please click on the 'Loose Grate' link below.)

They watched as the mighty being soared upward. From its beak came a banshee wail. It turned, treaded air with short flapping bursts, stared at them with sanguine eyes. Its beak opened again; instead of a wail there came a dulcet voice, ‘I look forward to your visit.’ With that, the figure disintegrated.

The thin one’s shoulders rose and fell as he breathed a deep, regretful sigh.

‘Are you okay?’ asked the fat one.

The thin one shook his head. ‘Of course I’m not okay!’ He whirled around, his stick raised. ‘All because of…’ But he didn’t finish; instead he leapt to his left as the giant plummeted to the ground.

Serenity

Fat pink sausage fingers tap tap atop the touchpad. His chins have chins. Something about a Chinese phonebook. It’s a joke his uncle told him; he doesn’t laugh at it anymore.


He needs a job. Direct deposits into his vacuous no hassle checking account. Benefits to justify rebellious paunch reducing procrastination. A congratulatory doughnut to celebrate his good fortune.

Lukewarm sunlight reflects off the not insubstantial strip of pocked peach skin that marks the rift between his too short russet shirt. He thinks to move but considers the effort; he merely adjusts, lets the salacious sun have its way with him. Something else he can’t control. Another silent prayer for serenity.