Flash Fiction V—The Late Edition

March 20. It was the first day of Spring. That’s when I ought to have posted this entry, but things happen. “Things” being, in this case, a combination of the sudden onset of Spring Fever and a mass of papers to comment upon (and grade). I was overtaken by a desire to sit in the sun making daisy chains—in spite of the lack of daisies to link together and, I must confess, in spite of possessing no practical knowledge of how to make a daisy chain. This made the grading of papers that much more challenging, as if that was necessary or even possible.

“So take the papers outside and grade them.” This is a reasonable suggestion. It doesn’t work, though; I’m not the kind of person who can focus in that way. I get distracted by the snippets of conversations of passersby, and cloud formations, and the seduction of the sun’s warmth, the tickle of the breeze, the aroma of all that burgeoning green. Does. Not. Work. Much more efficient to stay in my office—windowless, airless, sterile (in the sense of lacking visual interest)—and get the job done.

I know myself that well, at least. I am a woman who does not know how to make daisy chains. I am a woman who remains childishly distractible. I am a woman who works best in a closed environment.

None of this is news. The news in this post begins and ends with this statement: It was the first day of Spring.

Flash Nonfiction IV—The Good News!

Everyone loves food; even those pinch-faced (and they are always pinch-faced) ascetics who claim they “eat to live” hold dear some dish that they favor above all others. I know that I take my love of food to the extreme. I know that there is something outright dysfunctional going on in this relationship. I know that this is a story too-often told. This same-old-same-old does, however, explain why the “news” that inspired today’s post is not based in journalism. It is, rather, news that gets delivered to my inbox Thursdays through Mondays of each week.

It is, always, good news.

It is the daily dinner menu for Thomas Keller’s Ad Hoc.

I won’t be having dinner at Ad Hoc tonight because I’m in Connecticut, it’s in Yountville, California and Spring Break is over so I have classes. But I welcome the arrival of the dinner menu every time it appears; the idea that food this good is happening in the world seems like good news to me, even if the price of dinner is a solid and non-negotiable $52—and they charge extra if you want the (+) item. More good news: although I don’t have access to the same ingredients used at the restaurant, I do have the recipes for a lot of these dishes so I can make them at home at a substantial savings (though I won’t because the fried chicken needs a lot of pre-prep and I would have had to start yesterday).

I’m pretty certain that even those ascetics could find something to enjoy on this menu; if not today’s, then some other day’s. So, enjoy (and please note that any typos in the menu are not mine).

Dinner Menu for Monday, March 19th

Broccolini & Crescenza Salad
black olives, marinated mushrooms
fried chickpeas, red endive
lemon-honey vinaigrette

~

Buttermilk Fried Chicken
rancho gordo red beans and rice with sausage
sauteed romaine, english peas and carrots
chive oil

(+)

Prosciutto and Melted Onion Bruschetta
palladin toast, goat gouda
red radishes, rocket arugula

$12

~

San Joaquin Gold
pickled rhubarb
california strawberry and pear sald
piced mixed nuts

~

Pineapple Floats
vanilla ice cream, pineapple sorbet
huckleberry soda

Flash Fiction III—Gawd!

Yes, I did buy tickets for the midnight showing of “The Hunger Games” on Friday. I bought four for Saturday, too.

Mother, that’s ridiculous. Britney and I are going with Ali and Stef and I said I’d order the tickets online because I’m the only one who has an iPhone.

You need the iPhone because it has the app for buying tickets.

I don’t know why their phones don’t have the app; I don’t invent these things.

Gawd! I don’t have an attitude.

Daddy said he’d drive us.

Yes, I assume that means both ways.

I have no idea. Can’t you bring us?

I swear, you never once mentioned a half-marathon. I would have remembered that.

I totally would have remembered. Why isn’t it on the family calendar?

In red? You wrote it in red? No one can read red pen.

I don’t have an attitude. Gawd!

Well, what time will you be done do you think?

What? I was just asking!

Never mind; maybe Jen’s mom can drive us.

That’s because she’s not coming with us on Friday night; she’s going with other people on Friday night.

I don’t know what other people. Other people, that’s all.

There’s no way that was “a tone.” I don’t even know what “a tone” means.

I don’t know, it just wasn’t, that’s all.

Have you ever even run a half-marathon before?

Really? When have you been doing that?

Isn’t it cold out that early? And dark? Aren’t you afraid to go out in the dark? What if you, like, broke your ankle or something and no one could see you because the sun wasn’t even up?

Mom, I don’t think you should go out running in the middle of the night like that.

No, it’s completely different than going to the midnight showing of “The Hunger Games.” There’ll be a million people there; you go out all by yourself. You need to be careful in this world.

No, really, I mean it, Mommy. Things could happen and that would be tragic.

I’m not crying. I just had a little chill, that’s all, and so my eyes are watering.

I don’t need a hug. Gawd, you’re so weird!

Flash Fiction II—Money In The Bank

She always works a double on St. Patrick’s Day. “You’d be an idiot not to,” she says to Meghan.

“I’m an idiot, then.”

“I don’t mean you,” though she does. Meghan barely leaves the house on St. Paddy’s, another idiot thing.

The key thing is to have two pairs of shoes; one for each shift. Oh, and don’t forget the spare in the car. She’d learned this the hard way the year it snowed and she had to dump her puke-spattered sneakers in the trunk before driving home. Even with the heat blasting she felt the frostbite ruining her toes.

They come in just after her uncle turns on the sound system and unlocks the door. Five of them, with rugby shirts, striped green and white. Five Jameson shots ($6 each), three green beers ($2.50) and two Guinness drafts ($4); they look good for three rounds, minimum. “This one’s mine,” the smallest of them gives her $60, says to keep the change.

“You’re a sweet colleen,” he says later. “What’s your name?”

“Colleen.”

The ones who can hear over the Pogues or the Chieftains “hooooooahhh” as if she’s gotten over on him. She does not move away from his hand on her ass. When the next chorus of “Danny Boy” breaks out she sings along with them all the other St. Patrick’s Day Irish.

She has over $4K in her pocket (always in her front pocket, never the purse). Eddie the bouncer walks her to the car. There will be more tomorrow after the credit cards get run. When she gets home she and Meghan share a Guinness while Meghan rubs her feet. “It’s the red hair,” she says.

“It’s the name.”

“Money in the bank.”

“Maybe I’ll work next year.”

“You’d be an idiot not to.”

Flash Fiction 1—Trespass

I don’t know what’s going on over there in that church and I certainly don’t know what’s going on over there in that apartment. The newspaper says she was walking around at that power plant naked, trailing my grandbabies behind her and calling up to the sky for forgiveness. The girls were naked, too.

She’s just had bad luck. All her life, bad luck. Bad luck before she was even born. But I don’t blame myself and I surely don’t blame her. She isn’t bad. Maybe I do blame that preacher. Maybe I do blame that girl who brung her to that church the first time; spent just as many hours in that place praying and singing and waving her hands in the air but she didn’t have the kinds of troubles my daughter had and she should have known troubles like that are not helped with prayers and songs and walking home with no shoes on your feet with your girls who are just 4 and just 11 following you and it was after midnight. That girl should have known. That girl should have gotten someone to drive my Greta and those babies home. That girl should have called me when Greta grabbed her children’s hands and pulled them out the door with her into the dark, into the cold.

I don’t know what Greta needs to be forgiven for; maybe for making those children take off all their clothes outside, maybe for making them follow her through that marshy grass, no shoes on their feet, on a night when mittens needed mittens. That girl should have noticed the coats left behind, and the shoes kicked off by the folding chair that Greta knocked over when she jumped up to praise Jesus. I don’t know what was in that girl’s mind. She was on the local news talking about how she knew Greta was taking comfort in the Lord. I don’t know why they even showed that nonsense on the television. And where are my grandbabies now?

This Ought To Do Something

I decided that since I don't have hours to write I ought to try writing short things. So here's a challenge I developed for myself:

Write a piece of flash writing (fiction or nonfiction) every day for a month—-March 16 to April 16, 2012—-either based on a specific event in the news or in response to a writing prompt.

Each piece must be a maximum of 365 words.

I'll post today's piece separately.

Steamless

That is the only word I can think of to adequately describe my state of being at the moment. And so I've not been blogging, but I have to say that it's nice to know some people have noticed—and mentioned their having noticed.
I'll be back to this, soon.