FlashFiction.Net

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Eleven
Joseph Young

As she read essays, she plaited one side of her hair. You'd last forever, he said,
up from his puzzle. The green light of some vehicle tracked across the ceiling.

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How much do you see when you read this story? Do you see the he and the she, do you see a room?

I see a lot when I read this story. I see the he and the she and I see a room. I see the book in her hand, which has a beige and glossy cover. And I see the folded newspaper in his hand, plus a pen in his other hand. I see a window and curtains that are never explicitly mentioned, but are implied. I see the green light, of course, and that takes me across the bedroom, what I first imagine to be a bedroom anyway, and so I see other things—a dresser with things on top of it (a jewelry box, a hairbrush, his wallet, his watch). And because of the green light, I see a car driving down a street that is lined on both sides by other cars, but maybe that is just because I know where you live. One of the things I like about your fiction is that it is full of implication.

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It occurs to me that seeing might not be important, but I could be wrong. What is important?

You are wrong. Seeing is important and here is one of the important things—I see not only more than is mentioned, as mentioned above, but I see more than could actually be there. For instance, when I see the room, I see a bedroom (and both of them in bed, the covers pulled up, or maybe just a sheet), and then I also see a living room, her stretched out on a couch and him sitting in a chair or maybe sitting at a table. I see the folded newspaper and the crossword puzzle, but also maybe another kind of puzzle or maybe a book of crossword puzzles. Of course, I know that each thing can only be one thing, but that doesn’t stop me from seeing more than one thing. I also recognize that the puzzle may not be a kind of puzzle at all, but might, instead, be his puzzled state about the couple’s relationship. That’s one of the ways to make sense of the bit of dialogue.

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What is the value of a story like this? What does it add? Can it last?

I don’t like this question and I don’t think that you do either. I’m not sure why you’re asking it, but here’s something the story does—it makes me think about a couple, about two people being together, and about the different ways that two people can be together.

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Why did I title this story Eleven? I’m not sure I remember.

You titled the story Eleven to suggest time, 11pm, which accounts, in part, for how the green light is possible. That’s the obvious answers. But, really, you titled the story Eleven because, at one point, each of the three sentences had eleven words in them. At another point, you revised the story, leaving only nine words in the second sentence and ten words in the third sentence.

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I notice that I’ve avoided specificity to a great degree in this story. Isn’t that bad? What would William Carlos Williams think?

The very nature of your diction is adjectival. That’s good. William Carlos Williams, if he weren’t dead, would think you’re brilliant and he would be a little jealous of what you have done here.