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.

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.