Flash in the Pan – Irrational

Home at last. Miriam hums and kicks off her heels, then checks the fridge. No real food. Sigh. Her cell emits a boisterous, You Can’t Get no, Satisfaction.

She unzips her gray wool dress and peaks at caller I.D. What’s Trina, want? I quit the group months ago. “What’s up? Rotten weather for driving. Book-club on tonight?”

“Not sure. Time will tell. Sam’s out of gas—stuck on Exit 42.”

“How can I help?” As if I care.

“We need your gas can. Meet Doris at the Upper James Sunoco station.”

morgueFile free photos

“Dor-ris? What for?”

“She’s offered to keep you company.”

“This is irrational. You know she’s crazy, right? She hates me.”

“Bite the bullet this once, sweetie. Even Doris doesn’t remember why your conflict started.”

“And CAA?” Miriam grinds her teeth and drops the dress.

“Will take ninety minutes.”

“Doris doesn’t own a gun, does she? I don’t trust her.”

~ * ~

This is the new Fall Quarter of Flash in the Pan. The theme is Disturbed.

The word limit for Irrational is 150 words. I used them all again.

Check how to join:  http://mommasmoneymatters.com/flash-fiction/

Zone: Daylight Savings Time

As long as I can remember, changing the clock back in the fall has been nothing more than the gain of a little extra sleep. The first day of Daylight Savings this year proceeded as if I had my feet stuck in mud. Throughout the day, nothing worked as it should.  My internal clock was confused and out-of-sync. I felt not unlike the Tower of Pisa, tilted in shifting foundation soil.

I’d decided to sleep in Sunday morning. When I awoke at 8:20 a.m., I realized I’d forgotten to turn the clocks back before dropping into bed. Drat. I might as well get up as I’m awake and creaky, and my butt hurts from that stupid chair.

Bleary-eyed, I fumbled with the electric alarm clock to reset to the proper hour. I fed my sweet and patient kitty—she’d let me sleep without complaint. After a hot shower, soothed by the water, and a black cup of coffee, I grabbed my novel and opted to read for an hour. Sundays are my down day to read whenever possible. Forget the laptop and the internet till later.

Tilted back, my recliner is much more forgiving than any seat in the house and I read until I’d guzzled a whole pot of coffee. I checked the clock. It wasn’t even nine yet. Had the batteries died in both my wall clocks? The microwave? No, no and no unless they were in cahoots to drive me bonkers. Yeah, right.

morgueFile free photos

I experienced the oddest sensation as if time had stood still. Nee nee nee nee nee nee nee nee. The theme music to Twilight Zone echoed in my head. Get a grip. This is the 21^st Century. Rod Serling hasn’t been around since 1975.

I made another pot of coffee although I’d had enough and looked around as his ghost was breathing down my neck. I peered at the clocks again to see if they were dead or alive. Two minutes had passed. Okay, nothing to worry about.

My tummy wasn’t complaining yet; I wandered over to my laptop. Let’s see what’s happened while I snoozed the night away.

Within minutes, I was lost in the blogosphere. You know how it is: time flies. After a while, numb from sitting, I glanced up. It must be near Noon. Nope. Not yet. My tummy called for sustenance.  What the heck is going on here? How come it’s only ten-forty am?

I have never lived such a day. For the first time in my tenure on this majestic earth, Daylight Savings arrived faked as a place not a time. Unconsciously I’ve wished off and on—and who hasn’t—that elusive time would slow to an easy trot instead of the full gallop the last few years have wrought. The weird slower pace was kind of nice but creepy.

Have you noticed anything unusual since the time change almost three weeks ago?

Flash in the Pan – Delirious

“Stop!” This isn’t funny anymore.”

Hands no longer playful, jabbed and bruised. Tickletickletickle.

“Marco, stop.” Beth squirmed, face crimson, hair plastered to rippled forehead.

“Ah, Cara Mia. You like this before.”

“Enough.” She pushed, slapped and clawed. Tears drenched apple cheeks. “Can’t breathe.”

An abrupt knock propelled him backwards on the mattress. Beth wiggled away.

morgueFile free photos

“What’s going on?”

“Door, she locked?”

“In my father’s house? You’re delirious.”

“You—out—before I shoot.  You—cover yourself…”

~ * ~

This is the new Fall Quarter of Flash in the Pan. The theme is Disturbed.

The word limit for Delirious is 75 words. I used them all again.

Click: http://mommasmoneymatters.com/flash-fiction/ to check out the rules and how to join.

Broken Butt

This is serious. If I hear any gigglers in the back, I’m closing shop and going home–the better to lick my wounds in private. Nah, not really.

Two weeks ago, I sat at my dining-room table busy reading posts and leaving comments. The trouble began when I decided to sit on a card chair. Because I’ve been spending so much time on my laptop in this room, I find I hate my dining-room chairs. The seats are sprung (cushioned without any wood underneath) and too deep for me. Most of the time I end up perched on the edge of the chair, hunched over for long periods of time. I don’t notice until the back of my neck becomes stiff and the area between my shoulders, slightly lower than my neck aches.

I chose a card chair for size and thought I’d hit the jackpot. With my back supported, I sat up straight and the back of my knees hung over the edge of this chair just right. Thanks Baby Bear.

morgueFile free photos

What went wrong?

After some time, my concentration of all things blogging, found me on the edge of the chair. This is a run-of-the-mill card chair. You know: a metal square surrounding a lightly padded seat? Yep, the metal edge bit into the bottom of my butt. So, I moved around to lessen the numbness but it wouldn’t go away. The clock read I’d been at it for two hours. Time to go to bed.

The next morning when my feet hit the floor, my butt dragged. I might be mistaken for one of those wooden folding drying racks you setup in your bathtub on rainy days. On the other hand I FELT like the capital Greek letter sigma which means summation. In a nutshell, standing and movement meant pain and bent knees. What a picture. Blah. I can imagine muscle tone loss everywhere but not there. I’ve always considered I came well-padded. Wrong again.

For two weeks I haven’t sat comfortably. I tried cushions, regular foam, and a memory foam pillow. Stop laughing. Nothing helped. I’d broken my butt and had to I avoid stairs at any cost.

Today, I joined some friends at a walking trail for a 5K workout. At first every muscle I never knew my butt used to get me around pulled in the wrong direction, but I hung in there and it has probably loosened them up. I believe I’m getting to normal.

Up to this point, I’ve experienced no major physical issues except for this crimp in my lifestyle. I must remember I’m not sixteen anymore (although I feel about twenty) and shouldn’t take anything for granted anymore.

I can’t understand why I’m falling apart.

Flash in the Pan – Mad

The 60-inch television flashes and blares.

“Take the garbage out, Stanley.”

“In a minute.”

“You said that yesterday. The kitchen stinks already.”

“Next commercial.” He works the buttons on the remote. Click. Click. Click.

“No, now.” Hands on hips, Dolores stomps in between the screen and her husband.

He tramps into the kitchen. Overstuffed bag clenched, he returns and dumps the contents on the carpet.

morgueFile free photos.

“Have you gone mad, Stanley?”

“Well, it’s out, isn’t it?”

~ * ~

This is the new Fall Quarter of Flash in the Pan. The theme is Disturbed.

The word limit for Mad is 75 words. I used all 75.

Click: http://mommasmoneymatters.com/flash-fiction/ to check out the rules and how to join.

How are YOUR Eggs?

This subject has been on my mind for ages. I hope you’re wondering what kind of question this is?  It’s an ordinary one: about the eggs chickens lay.

I like to keep boiled eggs in the fridge either for a quick breakfast or to put in a salad at lunchtime. Over the past six months or so, I’ve noticed my eggs most uncooperative. I always have them come to a boil, turn down the gas and cover with a lid for ten minutes. Also, an ice water bath awaits to stop the cooking. Nothing in my process has changed in all the years I’ve been boiling eggs.

1. Eggs are always easier to peel soon after the cold water treatment.
2. 

   publicdomainpictures.net

   If I don’t peel an egg until the next day, they don’t peel as well as they should. The skin between the egg and the shell hugs the egg too tightly. I call this separation anxiety.

3. Let’s say I boil four eggs. One might peel more easily than the others. Why?
4. One egg will be cracked although no crack was noticeable before boiling.
5. The outside of one yolk may be dark grey even though they were boiled the same way in the same pot.
6. Brown or white eggs have no nutritional difference, but for a time brown eggs peeled easier than white. Hmm.
7. Farm eggs, from a local farmer, have a dark yellow yolk, almost orange. At least they used to. I haven’t checked in years.
8. Grocery store eggs used to have a deep yellow yolk. I read the colour of the yolk depends on what grain is fed to the chickens. What are they feeding them? White Wonder Bread?
9. Over time, I’ve noticed egg yolks have become lighter more like a corn silk yellow after boiling. I have no way of knowing the depth of colour before cooking.
10. The last carton of eggs I brought home from the grocery store seems compliant. At least so far. Peeling them reminds me of previous times.

* * *Don’t get me started on the grading of eggs. Here is the link to explain the process where I live.

http://eggs.ab.ca/about-eggs/quality-grades

It used to be, I bought Large eggs. I can’t recall when or why I switched to Extra Large. I pretend like to believe I’m observant and a curious sort. I’m not sure when I graded up. Seems eggs have been shrinking and I hadn’t noticed. That’s right—shrinking. Unless my eye-sight has deteriorated since I bought new glasses last summer, I believe Extra Large eggs are the new Large.

When were chickens taught to lay smaller eggs?

• Wait, maybe it isn’t their fault. Let’s go back to the brown and white eggs: depends which type of chicken is laying them.
• Yolk colour depends on what chickens are fed. What are the chickens eating that causes them to lay smaller eggs with washed out yokes?
• I read it’s not size but weight that counts for grading them. Hmm.

 * * *

Disclaimer: I am not scientific and have not used scientific means to explore my world of eggs. No farmers, chickens, or eggs were coerced in my amateur test. No money changed hands and no benefits gained. I stank at physics and never took chemistry. I am innocent of any and all finger pointing which may result. I have queried a couple of neighbours and a stranger or two, as well as a few friends. These are my results.

 * * *

About a year ago, I did a rant about shrinking food packaging which led to deceiving pricing. If you’re curious, you will find it here: https://letscutthecrap.wordpress.com/2012/06/12/whose-money-is-it-by-the-way/

Flash in the Pan – Level

“I said STOP.”

Cody twisted around. A rifle barrel pointed level to his head shut his mouth. Lips pressed tight, he waited, breathless. Tense arms shot up.

morgueFile free photos

“You the surveyin’ man?”

Cody’s face stung. “No-pe.”

“Whatcha want then?”

“Hunting and fishing. Got lost.”

Moth-eaten hat man squinted, spewed coal-black tobacco. “Don’t see no rifle.” The click of the hammer masked birdsong.

“Walking. Nice morning.”

“Uh-huh. Git. Watch out fur them snakes.”

Head bent, Cody smirked.

~ * ~

This is the new Fall Quarter of Flash in the Pan. The theme is Disturbed.

The word limit for Level is 75 words. I used them all.

Click: http://mommasmoneymatters.com/flash-fiction/ to check out the rules and how to join.