'Destiny' by Katie Willow

Dear Sir,

I read on the eleventh page of a book on the eleventh shelf of the eleventh row of the library on eleventh Thomas Street, Coombes, a message of mystery meant for me. I embarked on a mission to the eleventh house along the river and knocked eleven times on the door while turning eleven times on the spot. When the door opened, I entered and curtseyed eleven times and held my eleven fingers aloft and shed my shoes to show my eleven toes.

I shall not tell you how many years I spent searching for the house, the book, the library, the village. Only that it seemed this year would be the one I fulfilled my destiny. And yet nothing. I will return in November. Please be ready next time as this whole affair has been disappointing in the extreme,

Yours Faithfully,

Thomasina Coombes XI

'Odd one out' by Louise Hurrell

 

Elva was the youngest of eleven sisters: Charlene, Colleen, Eileen, Francine, Irene, Janine, Kathleen, Maxine, Pauline and Nadine. She loved them (obviously), but why did she have to be born last? By the time she came around, their parents weren’t interested in buying an eleventh set of clothes, toys, books. Meaning Elva had to do with her sisters’ hand-me-downs; she chafed against the well-worn fabric that had long gone out of fashion and didn’t even fit her properly. She saw the popular girls, the cool girls, with the latest gear and her heart ached as she hid the fraying edges of her sleeve. She hated school, hated sitting alone at lunch.

Not that being at home was much better. 

‘Time to start thinking about college – you’re in the eleventh grade now,’ Mom had announced, as though Elva wasn’t already aware of this fact, ‘You can’t stay at that 7/11 forever’.

But Elva liked the 7/11, liked the night shift she worked with Pauline and Nadine; she enjoyed meeting up and hearing their latest gossip. In those few hours she felt accepted, felt like everyone else. She was closer to her sisters there, under the fluorescent lights, than she had ever been. However, when the chat turned to college she quietened, despondency flooding her.   

The truth was, she didn’t know what to study. Everyone else had gone on to great things: medicine, law, teaching. Colleen had her own business, Irene gained a PHD. But Elva…she wasn’t good at anything. At all.

She locked herself in the staff toilet and began to cry. The sadness, the worry was all too much, too too much… she didn’t know what to do. Someone banged on the door.

‘Elva, you OK? What’s wrong?’

Everything, she thought, took a deep breath and called:

‘Nothing, I’m fine’.  

'Meet' by Marie Little

The group is down to eleven. Just eleven chances now, eleven flames to swell and flicker, eleven attempts at this madness. Luke checks his bag again: he is in charge of equipment. He ticks things off: eleven candles, eleven scripts, eleven tiny moulded figures, each one slightly different to the next. He checks his watch – 10.40pm. He had better get moving if he is to make it to the cave before eleven thirty. Mads arrives, dressed head to toe in black. "I brought snacks," she says, waving chocolate bars, "Eleven now, right?" Luke nods. He felt happier when there were twelve of them, somehow. Even number. Reliable. Positive. Eleven is off-balance. Eleven might spell the end of all of them. He grabs the bag, nods to Mads, and they head off into the night.

'An Awkward Age' by Kathy Szaters

I remember eleven. Such an awkward age. No longer a young child, not yet an adult. I think at eleven or twelve, you’re unofficially a ‘tweenager’. Even the word is awkward!

Me at eleven? Hmm, it was the early 80s. In the year I turned eleven, I was in Grade 6. The final year of primary school. I had grown tall quite young, and towered over the other eleven year-old girls. Told you – awkward!

What does a self-conscious girl of eleven do? Bury herself in books of course. Sci-fi and fantasy novels (and shows) provided the perfect escape then - and now!

Oh, how I wish I could live at Eleven Privet Drive and be invited to Hogwarts. Or live in Hawkins and have powers like Eleven. Imagine spending eleven minutes in the TARDIS, or eleven light years on the Enterprise (or Galactica).

There is still an awkward girl of eleven inside of me, who likes to dream herself away. If you’re looking for her, try Middle Earth. Or even Narnia.

'Old friends' by Cath Barton

 

It was time she met up with her old friend Alison again, Monica thought. And there was a new café in town. Number Eleven, that’s what she thought it was called. Near the market, she thought.

Number Eleven, Market St. Usual time on Thursday, Monica wrote in a text to Alison. Eleven o’clock, ha ha. She tapped in a series of emojis and sent it off.

On the Thursday it started raining just as Monica stepped out of her house. The town hall clock was striking eleven as she turned into Market Street. There was no sign of her friend, who she assumed was already in Number Eleven, sheltering from the rain.

But there was no sign of any café in the street. She asked in the butchers if they could direct her to Number Eleven.          

‘Nah, lady, there ain’t no eleven in this street, never been a number eleven – numbers go straight from nine to thirteen. Dunno why. Just one of those things.’

‘Oh.’ Monica frowned. ‘But there’s supposed to be a new café called Number Eleven.’

 ‘What? Say again.’

 A noise from the back of the shop had drowned out what Monica had said.

‘Number Eleven.’ she shouted it this time.

‘Look lady, I told you, there ain’t no number eleven. Now excuse me but I’ve got customers to see to.’

Outside it was still raining heavily. Monica went into another café on another street, a place she’d often been to with her friend. She ordered a flat white and asked the proprietor if she’d seen Alison. The woman looked perturbed, sat down and patted Monica’s hand.

‘I thought your friend died last year, dear. I’m so sorry. How about a cake to go with your coffee? Cheer you up now. On the house.’

'New Year’s Eve' by Al Davidson

Eleven resounding chimes bound down the corridor at the clock strikes 11:00pm, the echoing sound akin to war drums on the horizon as soldiers march onward toward battle.  Father Herring sits in the chapel, in the eleventh row of pews, and listens to the church bells chime around him.  One more hour until the new year rolls in.  He can hardly believe it.

The eleventh call from the belfry beckons to him.  So, he rises from the pew and paces back eleven lines of old wooden benches toward the pulpit.  He grabs his leather-bound bible, opens it to the eleventh Psalm and takes solace in the words.  The small pocket calendar tucked under the stacks of paper is stuck in the past, back in November, in the eleventh month.  Stuck in autumnal times.  The 11th is circled with blue pen, it was an important Sunday even if he cannot remember why.

The snowfall outside the windows flitters and flows like glitter against the pale streetlight outside.  Last he checked, the temperature would be stagnant at 11° Fahrenheit, bitterly nipping at fingers and cheeks of those who stay out to watch another year roll in.  He could hardly believe it was his eleventh year in these hallowed halls.  How blessed was he.  How blessed this New Year’s Eve with so many reminders of eleven years of grace, good fortune, and kindness.  What a powerful number indeed.

NFFD 2022 Prompt #22: Repeat After Me...

 Repeat After Me...

This is National Flash Fiction Day's eleventh anniversary, so this year, all our prompts have something to do with the number 11....

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If you've been following our prompts all day, are you bored of the number eleven yet? Fear not!  We're nearing the end...though we're not quite there yet!  

For the final task, let's embrace this ridiculous eleven fixation by writing a flash that uses the word 'eleven' in it...eleven times.

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If you’re submitting this to us, make sure to note that this is a response to Prompt 22: Repeat After Me...

You can submit responses until 23:59 BST on Sunday, 19 June 2022 for a chance to be published here at The Write-In.