The Weapon

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

She raised the bullhorn. ‘You are not welcome! You will not build! We will endure!’ The ragtag protesters echoed her cries like a destitute flock of deformed geese.

On the other side of the flimsy wooden wall, a rat faced man named Henderson and a gigantic bear of a man named Little plotted.

‘They think we’re building.’

‘How wrrrrong they arrrrre,’ purred Henderson. ‘Do you have the weapon?’

‘Yes. Trust me, it’ll do the job.’

‘It betterrrr; I want complete destrrrrruction.’

Little entered the massive trailer and returned with a container. Henderson took the cylinder with his left hand and deftly slit Little’s throat with the dagger in his right.

‘Purrrrfect…’

Contrition

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

‘Your transfer is complete.’ He shifted uncomfortably.

‘Thank you, Eminence.’

‘I have heard your confession and trust your contrition.’ He paused. ‘ You know you can never return to that parish.’

‘I understand, Eminence.’

‘I encourage you to condemn your actions but forgive yourself.’

‘I shall, Eminence.’

‘Your path will be brutal; you must never again succumb to those appetites.’

‘I know, Eminence. I will not allow it to happen again.’

‘You are a young man, Father Nash, with a promising future. I see in you much of myself.’

The young man groped for words. ‘You are too kind, Eminence.’

‘Every man deserves a second chance, Father. Good luck with yours.’

Prayer

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

Thanks for nothing. How can I believe in a God that will let this happen? It’s a disgrace. And you say it’s all because you want us to learn to love you of our own free will. Bullshit. What are you, some kind of narcissist? Some self-aggrandizing egotist who lords his love for power over people who don’t know any better? I know what really happens with those second set of footsteps; you leave. I know what the dark night of the soul is; you abandon us. I know what you are; you’re a fraud. I doubt you; I doubt everything about you. And yet, I can’t stop talking to you...

Chastity

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

He genuflected, signed himself, and exited the chapel observing those holy men whose countenances stared blankly into the darkness. Back in his room, he removed the collar and poured whiskey into a snifter tinted with past libation. He sipped, felt the flames of hell tickle at his parched throat. A wistful knock came softly at the wooden door.

‘Come.’

His friend, a fellow seminarian, entered almost reluctantly. They exchanged no glance, just undressed until naught but their underclothing clung to their damp bodies. They pulled back the sheets, arranged themselves on the bed, and held each other tightly.

‘Is this chaste?’

‘I don’t know.’

They fell into deep and restful sleep.

Toothpaste

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

‘Stella!’

‘Huh?’

‘Stella, c’mere!’

‘I’m downstairs. Whaddya want?’

‘C’mere!’

She climbs the stairs slowly.

Her husband waits at the apex holding a tube of toothpaste in his hands. ‘Why don’t you squeeze from the bottom?’ He moves his hands to demonstrate.

‘Really, George?? You interrupted me for a tube of toothpaste?’

‘I been telling you for thirty years.’

‘So.’

‘Well, you obviously ain’t listening.’

‘Obviously.’

‘It’s real simple, Stella. All ya gotta do is work from this end,’ he points to the flat end of the tube.

‘I’m going back downstairs.’

‘You gonna listen to me this time, Stella?’

‘No, George, I ain’t.’ She turns and ventures back to the laundry.  

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.