Joy

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

More money,

More horsepower,

More square feet,

More education,

More love,

More…

Are we never enough?

Those thorny little epithets flung behind our backs,

Those eye rolling glances cast between those we deem powerful.

They has an effect.

(Only if you let them)

They makes us doubt.

(If you wish)

 [What we half create,

And what perceive.]

Isn’t getting better the point?

To progress!

Which begets progress,

Which begets progress,

Ad infinitum.

Quod Erat Demonstrandum.

{Give to Caesar what is Caesar’s}

Do you want to know a secret?

Do you promise now to tell?

Progress may bring happiness,

But intent remains the font of joy.

{Give to God what is God’s}

Forced Awakenings

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

I approached the cashier; he spoke to a woman about Star Wars.

I’m a fan. The first movie I saw in theaters was Return of the Jedi. I sent away five proofs of purchase to obtain the Emperor action figure. Twice. I’ve watched the movies – even Phantom Menace – myriad times.

When Disney hired Abrams, I felt giddy. Not only is he an incredible director, but he’s good at keeping the story quiet, just like I like it.

I was to see The Force Awakens that night. I put my items down. Then the cashier revealed that…

For those who’ve seen it, you know what I mean.

He flinched when I snarled.

Guns

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

He walked into the den where his wife was writing. ‘They’re dead.’

‘Huh?’

‘My mother. She said. They died.’

‘Who?’

‘My brother.’

‘Oh my God.’

‘His son too…’

‘Your Godson?’

‘Not anymore.’ He stared out the window.

She hugged him.

He sighed, then chuckled, then began laughing uncontrollably; tears streamed down his face.

‘What is wrong with you?’

‘Maybe now they’ll change the gun laws.’

‘What do you mean?’

He turned on the television. ‘… gunman was the father of a child killed in the Newtown massacre.’ A pause. ‘For those of you just joining, at least twenty are dead with many more wounded at the NRA Convention in Louisville, Kentucky.’

Sighs

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

He entered the den, closed the door, sat in the recliner, and sighed. His wife and children knew better than to approach him. At best, he’d ignore them; at worst, he’d scowl and yell.

He wanted to eat with his family. He wanted to listen to his children recount their days. He wanted to play Scrabble with them until bedtime. He wanted to retire to the bedroom with his wife. He wanted to explain to her how he felt stuck and needed to find another job.

But he didn’t. He couldn’t.

Instead, he reached for the remote, turned on the television, and stared at the screen until he drifted into oblivion.

Worthy

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

The priest leaned forward.

She sat with arms folded and stared out the window.

He spoke softly, ‘You are worthy of love and forgiveness.’

She sneered.

He didn’t react, then repeated, ‘You are worthy of love and forgiveness.’

She glanced at him, rolled her eyes.

‘You are worthy of love and forgiveness.’

She turned her head and glared at him.

‘You are…’

‘No, I ain’t. Get the fuck outta here!’

He bowed his head briefly, then spoke, ‘You are worthy…’

‘I killed my kids. I ain’t worthy of shit!’

He looked into her eyes. ‘You are worthy of love and forgiveness.’

She averted her eyes; a tear streamed down her cheek.

Grand Finale

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

“He grabbed the cat by its neck. ‘Behold! I shall toss this feline from the balcony. For she is magical with astonishing levitative powers. Drum roll, please!’ They pounded their thighs in unison as they gaped in awed glee. He swung the hissing cat back and forth. Then simply let go. We went silent as she plummeted; we waited in rapt anticipation. Then a bird floated up above an adjacent building and vanished. He turned a cat into a bird!“

“Sir, she is definitely under the influence.”

“Of what?”

“We don’t know.”

“Then he brought out his baby daughter. So cute! ‘And now for the grand finale,’ he said.”

“Oh no.”

Necessity

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

My grandmother finished her rosary. After the final bead, she smiled – signaling she was ready to chat – and asked me about school.  I told her I was writing about the bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, and then railed against their barbarity. My grandmother listened quietly. In a rare adolescent moment of clarity, I asked her opinion.

‘You have to remember that we were going to invade Japan and probably lose a million men.’ She paused. ‘I’m not saying it was right, but it was necessary. Plus, your grandfather was in the Pacific; I don’t think he would have come back. So, if they didn’t drop them, you probably wouldn’t be here.’